“And we sleep all, sleep all day, sleep all, we sleep all day over again”
November 28, 2011 § Leave a comment
There used to be something a little bit great about getting sick… before college, anytime you got sick, it felt like a small price to pay to stay at home, watch TV all day, and be waited on hand and foot. What’s that mom? Yes, I’d love another 7-Up. No, no more porridge, I had enough. I can’t reach the remote, could you… thanks dad.
And in college, even without the parents, getting sick meant having a legitimate excuse to skip classes and stay in bed all day. But after college?
The illusion has vanished, the luxury of lethargy depleted. At the first signs of a cold or flu, I chug a gallon of orange juice. I load up on Airborne. And then I pray that I wasn’t too late.
But my body doesn’t fight off viruses the way it used to, so the next morning when I wake up, it’s usually with a cactus in my throat, hypersensitive (and unpleasantly clammy) skin, and my entire body feeling as if it had spent all night throwing itself in front of moving vehicles. The most recent addition is a pulsating headache that occurs from behind my eyeballs, making me wish I could scoop them out and replace them with ice. You know what’s worse than shivering your ass off while simultaneously sweating from every surface point on your body? Nothing.
That’s how I felt when I got sick last week. And it seemed, no matter how much vitamin C I consumed, my immune system just couldn’t bounce back and fight. I laid (well, I guess you couldn’t call it “laying”, as I was mostly in the fetal position) on the couch/bed/floor by fireplace, doped up on NyQuil, and nearly prayed away my soul for it to stop. It meant that I missed Thanksgiving with my Imo and Harmonie, making me feel a tremendous amount of guilt that was emphasized when my brother returned with an impressive amount of leftovers (and none of which I could actually enjoy, as I had lost all appetite and the ability to taste anything).
Suddenly, whether you have a job to report to or not, being sick no longer contains any element of being fun. It’s the punishment that it was always meant to be. Suddenly, everything feels super heightened, as if the symptoms are getting worse with each cycle, warning you that you are getting ever closer to death. Or turning in to a bigger sissy, I don’t know.
Today marks exactly one week of my zombie status, and I’m still so congested (the sexy Scarlett Johansson voice eludes me, as my sick voice makes me sound like Fran Drescher) and still occasionally hit with a flash combination of fever and chills (menopause is going to be so much fun). However, I don’t feel as if I’m going to black out walking from the couch to the kitchen anymore, which means I’ll be spending some time today disinfecting everything I’ve been touching. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.
Anyway, when I wasn’t sleeping 18 hours a day, last week meant:
…A movie night with the girls, where we watched Bridesmaids and Crazy, Stupid, Love, which made me understand what the hoopla surrounding Ryan Gosling was all about.
…Daily rations that included a cocktail of medication (does Alka Seltzer taste like piss and beer to anyone else?) and the only food that didn’t want to make me throw up violently.
…Not partaking in the shitshow that is Black Friday, though the Boyfriend snuck out and managed to buy the only items that weren’t part of the sale. We were dinosaurs in the technology world, devoted to our Blackberrys, so we spent the weekend catching up, exploring Angry Birds and Instagram (Boyfriend also spent an hour talking to Siri, which, between that and his work, is going to make me obsolete).
And with this capful of yet even more medication, I toast for a better week.
“It’s like forgetting the words to your favorite song, you can’t believe it, you were always singing along”
November 11, 2011 § 1 Comment
Among the many things Honie and I have inherited from my mother, none garners more envy than our hair. We have great fucking hair: it’s thick, shiny, low maintenance, and grows at a ridiculous rate. I once had a stylist, upon hearing my request for a bob, morph in to a crisis negotiator, becoming feverishly adamant that I do no such thing.
Did I mention it’s super thick? I’m talking use-both-hands-to-measure-circumference thick. It’s problematic because it gets intensely heavy – and it’s when my hair gets long and thick enough to give me reoccurring headaches that I finally give in and schedule for a cut. And with a throbbing scalp, I tell myself that THIS will be the time I bob it, that not only would it be practical (as it would remove all the weight), but a change would do me some good. I equip myself with photos of celebrities who spend my monthly grocery budget with one haircut, envisioning that it could be easily replicated at a laughable fraction of the price.
But in that chair, whether persuaded by the stylist or not, I panic and choke… and I leave with the slightest of trims, indistinguishable to anyone I don’t explicitly inform.
As expected (and as I come down from the initial new-hair high), I kick myself for giving up another chance to try something new, and wonder why I continue to do so, regardless of the fact that I felt so convinced prior to. And of course this line of questioning always leads to something that goes far past my split ends, into dark and crippling territory about everything I’ve failed to do. The truth is, I talk about doing a lot of things, but because of whatever reason – whether it be fear or missed opportunity – I simply, don’t.
You see, planning and talking about big change is super easy to do. You can draw out the most elaborate proposal, pump yourself up, and just as easily convince yourself that you are indeed, convinced.
But when it comes for time of action? Motivation and courage suddenly get sideswiped by reason and rationality: What’s the likelihood this plan could fail? Is it worth giving up everything you know and have? Suddenly, holes appear in that seemingly solid block of confidence of yours, and that’s when familiarity coaxes you to come back, reassuring you that what you have really isn’t that bad.
And in all likelihood, what you have probably isn’t that bad, and reason isn’t the enemy here. It’s reason that talks us down from doing impulsive things, like buying ridiculously expensive underwear (who’s really going to see it?) and getting a tattoo on your face (duh).
It’s reason that ultimately saves my wallet and prevents me from getting disowned by my parents. Reason saves me from getting haircuts that would make me look like a reincarnation of Dora the Explorer. Reason keeps me from making too many stupid and regrettable choices. Reason is what distinguishes me as a functioning member of society, and not, say, a sociopath.
So what’s with the guilt that comes with letting reason do its thing?
For me at least, it’s because I think that anything worth taking a chance must come with a high risk for it to be worth anything at all. I get so stuck in the mindset that change must come at big and bold intervals, something dramatic and drastic, for it to count as considerable change. And how wrong could I possibly be? Why do I think it’s so shameful to get layers than to chop it all off?
We get so bogged down with taking enough chances and not taking enough chances that we forget that it’s not one or the other sometimes. We measure our success and failures only when the payoff is severe and extravagant. We get disappointed and depressed when we set lofty goals, without putting in the work to make it attainable. We don’t give ourselves enough credit when we take those baby steps, because they’re not as impressive to acknowledge. We obsess over instant gratification and become shortsighted, until we lose all grasp on what we wanted in the first place.
We can’t appreciate the smaller victories until we redefine our perimeters for the word itself. And we have to work in conjunction with reason, so that we don’t sabotage ourselves from the get-go.
My bone structure does not and will not support a bob or a pixie cut, no matter how cute Carey Mulligan makes it look. This does not make me a chickenshit for not trying. It simply means I need find alternative ways to solve the objective, which was never to have short hair; it was always about making it less heavy, so that I don’t have to pull out the Advil as much.
And so I haven’t submitted anything to Esquire or Vanity Fair yet. But I’ve posted more blog entries in this past month than I have in the past three.
You’ve got to start somewhere, right?
“Can you imagine no love, pride, deep fried chicken?”
November 7, 2011 § Leave a comment
Winter weather has officially hit Seattle, made obvious when I walked out of the condo obliviously in shorts, causing my lungs to suck in the sharpest of breaths. The view of the Sound is pretty amazing from our place, but such proximity to the water also means that the wind gusts seem much more forceful and frequent, as if to say, “Don’t forget I’m here, bitches.”
The dropping temperature gives me a legitimate excuse to utilize the fireplace, allowing for a practical and picturesque centerpiece for the living room. Unfortunately, the coziness often conjures up a certain level of lethargy, so it’s not totally uncommon that I spend all my time indoors, days at a time (not even bothering to head downstairs to check mail)… which is exactly what happened last week.
The byproducts of last week’s slothiness meant…
…Online shopping everything, regardless of the fact that I live a walking distance to some great shopping downtown. Despite knowing exactly what I ordered, deliveries make everything feel like early Christmas.
…Healthy living (for the record, Blue Moon remains my favorite burger joint). Hey man, winter survival means keeping warm… with body fat.
…Discovering my favorite new show of the season. Who knew Chiarello was such a sassy pants?
…It wasn’t all lazy… Boyfriend and I ventured out of our cocoon on Sunday night to try the newly opened Cake Envy, which offers junior versions of every cupcake, allowing you to splurge more with less risk. My favorite was the Almond with Creme Anglaise, while Boyfriend claimed the Chocolate with Chocolate was the best he’s ever had. The shop itself is an inviting space, with lots of cute tables (and couches), encouraging gluttonous dates, meetings, and girl-talk sessions.
soopastryheart 