My Blog

crawling skin

today I discovered (snooping is a horrible, horrible thing) that my ex, the first big love of my life, is fucking married. Holy shit. I mean, yes, it's been years, but he was so much of what I wanted, I quess there was always a small hope there. Finding this out just made me want to crawl out of my skin. It's an interesting reaction. I instantly hated everything about myself and where I am in life and where I'm going in life and what I've done in life. Took me lunch (always a good idea when I get cranky) and a very large chocolatey Starbucks, and a yoga class complete with wobbly hand stand to get me to let go of this pain in my heart. Just broke me. But, as my sis and discussed today, she and I are, unfortunately, made of strong stuff. We don't get to get away with breaking down and wallowing in dispair and crying on shoulders of someone big and strong to take care of us. We get to say, "sigh. Fuck all. Tomorrow's another day." The logical secretly optimistic side of me can rattle off so many things I have that I am grateful for. So many things I have earned, and be granted. So many good things about myself that helps me to know there is still hope for me in one way or another. But today was a strangely too-close-for-comfort brush with the edge of an emotional breakdown. Over someone I haven't talked to for over a year and haven't seen for some time more than that. Over something that died ages ago for no reason other than it just died. Over something I lost and mourned already and moved past enough to be able to admit his new wife looks adorable and beautiful and fun. The heart and mind are just bastards sometimes. Luckily, I still have some red licorice left!! Tomorrow is another day!

Yoga

It's amazing how procrastination encourages the random thought process.

I went to a yoga class today - not the crazy bend your legs over your shoulders and under the opposite armpit and link your toes together kindof stuff, the 24 hour fitness lay on the floor with your eyes closed a lot kindof stuff - and it amazes me how good I feel afterward.

Picture this (if you actually know me, you know my body type - it hasn't changed in a bajillion years): a 30 year old woman with big boobs and what I like to affectionately call "man shoulders" (due to many gym years and sports and (believe it or not) art, which only worked out my deltoids) (look it up if you don't know what those are) and a big old "I've had 12 kids" ass and thighs we won't talk about and monkey toes (notice I skipped my calves, cause I think those are fine. Knees look good too, but aren't going to last long) shaking like I have a fever (need more cowbell joke inserted here) while one leg is sort of half-lifted in the air and toes are pointing every direction and other leg is firmly planted and nowhere close to being straight, arms reaching down desperately trying to resist the temptation to cling to my yoga mat for support, fingers barely able to reach the ground because I've decided my arms must be too short for this sort of thing, and there's my face (bright purple, sweaty, kindof wild eyed, nose dripping) looking back at me in the mirror behind me, popping out under this ample ass I always forget I have until moments like this. And hold for 30 seconds to one minute.

Then we go into downward facing dog, which I totally nail, yea me. But before downward dog we do some sort of fucked up how the hell do you do this holding push up pose that I can't for the life of me do, despite aforementioned meaty arms. You do the plank (all of these have fancy names I don't know - I like to refer to them as "fucked up #1", "You've got to be kidding me #5", "Um..yeah...right" and "Am I doing this right #7") and then lower your body down until your arms are bent (hopefully at the elbow and no where else) and your hands are next to your head and you hold your body an inch off the floor for a few seconds. Or in my case, you let your arms entirely collapse from the plank position and smash down on your big boobs and wait until the next pose. In one class you sit on your butt (Nailed it!!) and cross one bent leg over the other, reach behind your back with the same side arm, reach through bent leg with opposite side arm and clasp hands. Yeah. Hold that muthafuckah for 30 of the longest seconds of your life. I get one arm about under my knee of my bent leg, and the other arm just flails around my butt for a while. There are warrior poses I dig because just the name makes you feel stronger, more powerful, ready to kick some ass with your buffed out yoga feet. But then they make you look at the ceiling while you hold the pose and that just jacks everything the hell up. Who knew looking up would destroy your ability to stay upright? And anything that has to do with balance, well, I just go get some coffee, because it's useless. Go from warrior 145 to "hey I'm an airplaine" pose and stay there - no wait, move your arms from airplane to swan dive and stay there. No, move your leg from kicking out behind you to tucked in your crotch and stay there. No, move your arms up and look at the fucking ceiling again while you try to ignore the fact that your foot (and your not-skin tight, totally uncool, wannabe yoga pants) is sliding down your leg. You'd think long toes would help that whole balance thing. They don't. It just feels like I'm breaking them off.

However!!! Having given you an idea of me in my yoga classes, afterward I feel AMAZING. I feel taller, thinner, stronger, more feminine, graceful, rich and beautiful. All from staring at my ass in the mirror upsidedown. I realize it's more of a mental thing, but it's such a fucking great mental uplift that I just had to share it with the one person I know who reads this crap I write on here. I feel like after one yoga class, I should put on a slinky little strappy dress with 16" heels so I can go to the grocery store and buy a radish and look down my nose at those people buying potato chips, and then ride off in my limo to my mansion where my oily bohunk pool guy is there ready to shtoop me a few thousand times before I go receive my award for being the coolest sexiest woman ever to exist.
Okay, maybe not quite like that. But I sure do feel like I slouch less. No doubt.

people

Okay, so my latest issue is: When you are in a relationship (which I am not, so, yes, I'm talking about other people) where do you draw the line between making sacrifices for the happiness of your significant other and losing everything that makes you happy? When you are committed to someone, naturally, you should want to make them happy and, naturally, sometimes that means you put their happiness before your own. But how many of those decisions becomes too many? How do you know? When do you realize, Jesus, I'm becoming this subservient person who will do almost anything to keep this relationship going, when I should be looking for a better one? Is it really this horrible horrible thing to be alone on your own terms and try to be okay with that for a while? I know that whole idea of a happily ever after weighs heavily in the decision making process in relationships, but why does happily ever after have to include someone else?
The last long term relationship I was in, my dominant memory is this huge daily anxiety of "is he happy? am I doing all I can to make sure he knows I love him? Should I leave the room? Should I stay? Should I stand up for myself? Should I give in? Should I give him space or force him to open up to me?" and so on and so forth. Now, granted, my self esteem is not the greatest on the planet, but I know what I can bring to a relationship and knew what I did for him. And we had a great time until he just sort of gave up and got bored. And now that memory of constantly worrying about how he feels is my biggest road block to wanting to be in a relationship. I kindof want to say, fuck the whole relationship bullshit. Find a couple of men to fuck around with, go home to my place that is jammed full of my own crap that I put wherever I want to and don't clean it up until I feel the need to. Get a pet or something to give me the love and affection the fuckbuddies don't, and enjoy life without the anxiety. But it never works that way. For whatever reason, the strong independent side of women always seems to disappear when they are in a relationship, and out comes this nagging, insecure, questioning, unbearable needy side that we never admit we actually have.
I think learning to enjoy life alone (minus the occasional good time with others) would be ideal....of course, that's a long way off. It would make my blogs a bit more light-hearted though!

trust

So here's a question for the silent people who may read this and never admit to it. How do you get yourself to trust people again? Things happen in your life which makes you hey, maybe, cynical, maybe sarcastic, maybe you have the low self-esteem, maybe you have the big thick wall something Pink Floyd would be proud of. How do you re-train yourself to get past that suspicion and just trust that you'll be fine, that so-and-so won't hurt you and even if so-and-so does hurt you, you'll get through it and survive? There's all these made-for-women movies and tv shows (hi, Sex and the City) where women across the board have been royally fucked over and still they, at the last moment, drop all their hangups and defensive blocks and worries and suspicions and suddenly they are happily-ever-aftering with their oily bohunk. Does that actually happen in real life where women have big asses and saggy boobs (yeah, it's me, fine) and can't even let go of their convictions of doom long enough to even have a conversation with a potential oily-bohunk? Seems like such a huge unattainable goal, I just wonder if there is some sortof thigh work or math equations I could do to get on past these issues to even give myself the chance of getting a broken heart. Wait, see, negative comment. I mean, give myself the chance to fall in love and have birdies carry ribbons to wrap in my hair in the morning and have bunnies snuffle up to me with whispers of "true love" to make me giggle. No. I don't giggle. But I like the idea of potential giggling. No one will write a response to this, but I thought I would keep the downer, complainy theme of my blogging - one day I'll surprise the one of you who reads these (probably my mom) and write something upbeat and peppy and postively dripping with sugary optimism. And pep. Did I mention pep? One of the horrible P words. Do you know any words that start with P which are actually good, savory words? Nope. Not a one. I shall leave you to your review of every P word you can think of.

yup

So I went to church on Sunday for the first time in, what, seven years...I only went because I figured I'd support the gang who were all going for Easter and actually believe and all that good stuff. It was interesting to go knowing that I didn't need to find fullfillment in it or try to accept anything or believe anything or relate to anything, being entirely comfortable in my own system of beliefs. I have done the church route a many times in my life, from being baptised and going through communion and being confirmed and trying non-demoninational, and college youth groups and a Bible study weekend in Catalina and hippy churches and study sessions on my own. I've highlighted the hell out of Psalms.

I can definitely see the draw and the appeal of the church environment - a bunch of strangers brought together over one unified cause and belief. And there was a lot of greeting neighbors and shaking hands and giving hugs which I was entirely uncomfortable with but appreciated as one who is socially inhibited does after surviving horrible stranger-hugging encounters. This was a Catholic ceremony and there was entirely too much standing, sitting, kneeling, standing, greeting, kneeling, standing crap for my lazy ass. But the priest was cool - he started out by telling the parents not to get "ticked off" at kids for doing what they are supposed to do and getting fidgity. Then he went on and gave a sermon which I entirely tuned out on while staring at the size of this woman's hair in the choir. Good grief, it was enormous! She must have had to turn sideways to get in doorways. I digress.

I am amused by the songs and Bible readings which repeatedly state something along the lines of "you are the only God, ever, I swear it, I promise and I believe it and it's only you, that's it, it's just you, you only, I'd never even dream of suggesting there might be someone else, you you you" kind of stuff. I would think an all-powerful kind and generous God wouldn't need to have His self-esteem propped up. Nor would he need to hear the chantings of the populous saying over and over how they believe - isn't He just supposed to KNOW this stuff? And the priest had everyone pray for God's acceptance of the monetary donation given to "The Lord" - I think it would be accepted whether God liked it or not....

I firmly believe that when I am faced with my own death I will understand the attraction of life ever after and feeling that someone is looking out for you even though He might do it in really fucked up ways. If I could actually wrap my mind around that whole 'my own mortality' thing for longer than a moment I might find peace in religion. But as of this moment, I don't fear death, and I don't imagine there is anything for me after death but a nice loooooooooooong sleep, which sounds pretty damn good to me. I'll have to let you know if I find out I'm wrong. And of course if anyone actually reads this other than me and gets their undies in a bunch because I'm not religious, I don't think there's anything wrong with being religious and see many benefits of it. I just don't do it. But I am severely devoted to Dawson's Creek reruns, so who am I to talk??

Oh, and the best part of the church thang was the choir had this triple bell thing a woman would clang during each song, and someone in our group whispered "I gotta have more cow bell" and the rest of us sniggered into our Bibles for a good 10 minutes. Good times. Good times.

death

So Wednesday my best friend Jamie would have been 30. It's crazy how someone can leave for a quick weekend trip and never come back, and you go through the next (jeez, already) year remembering, "oh, that was the last time..." "huh. It was only a week later that..." It makes you realize all the different ways you can be strong and reliable, makes you feel good that you were the one who carried through this, and at the same time you realize all the little selfish habits and assumptions you've made, and continue to make. With Jamie, she was this laughing, kind, openhearted person- flawed of course, but one of the rare few with whom you struggle to find fault. So there's now this guilt of the fact that I, being the smart-ass, selfish deep down, insecure, flakey and impatient one, am still going on about my business. Turning 30. Still have the chance to have a happily ever after whether I deserve it or not. The one good thing is, it makes you aware when you are treating your friends like shit. It makes you not hesitate to say and do the things that your friends and family need you to do and say. Cause you just never know. It's an interesting challenge to not freak out on the people I know when they travel - Jame died in a plane crash. Tough to not get the desperate edge in my voice when I say "safe trip". I see on the news about this young girl who was kidnapped and raped and murdered, and I think, at least Jame didn't go through that. She was with her boyfriend, who was the pilot, who died with her. She had a good day, playing with some dogs earlier (her favorite), and smiling and laughing, from what people say. But it's the moment of fear the rest of us seem to dwell on. From when Wayne (pilot) realized something was wrong and made the distress call to when they hit the ice and it was over. And that they were lost under the ice, still sitting in the plane, for a week before they could find them and bring them up. And then another week before she could be brought home. And she and Wayne were having troubles before they left, which was why she went with him that day - supposedly to try to work it out. The what ifs drive you crazy. And the casket seemed so small. But it was over a year ago and we've worked through it, and I've survived without hysterical breakdowns and without drugs and without therapy. But there's always that nagging, "why was I so pissed off at her that last week" "why didn't I open the door when she called out goodbye before they left" "why didn't I let go of my trivial irritations to have one good happy conversation before I never spoke to her again". Crazy the things you become aware of after someone leaves you forever. Kindof wish you could see that in advance and make all the necessary corrections and precautions. So Wednesday I need to talk to her family, to help us both feel like we still have her a little, and send my care packages that mean and do nothing but distract them, and go to work, and not have hysterical breakdowns, and then on Thursday go on with the routine. Crazy how you have to plan to get through a day that used to be a celebration.

what the fu....

So this is now some diary thing I can vent and write really long rambling notes to myself in the hopes that either, a) I'll get what I need off my chest and will feel better, or b) someone else will read it and thing "damn, she's fucking hilarious" and want to do me, or c) I will kill enough time to keep myself from killing elsewhere just out of sheer boredom. I now have the added anxiety of, was I supposed to choose the purpley pink colors because I'm a woman? What if I just like a good blood red color, dammit? And what of the floor show? In an empty house? In the middle of the night?
Hmmm....this boggish distraction seems to be working...... How sad does it make me if I continue to write to myself and noooooobody else reads it? I'm about to find out.....