Ok. That was scary. I just ate my entire Clif Bar and didn’t realize it. I mean, I was hungry. I made the decision to get it out of my purse. I opened the package, had fleeting thought of the trouble it took me to get the prized, my favorite, my precious, Black Cherry Almond Clif Bar, and took nummy first bite. Then went back to have more, and it was gone. I had consumed my entire Clif Bar (which, I would like to point out, is a meal Replacement bar). A Meal Replacement. Good for an entire meal. Enough energy, calories, protein to replace a meal. And I ate it all. Without realizing it.
Now I realize that this is not on the level of “Fat Girl Eats Own Arm to Survive.” But I am very disturbed, nonetheless. I am supposed to be watching what I eat. I am supposed to be losing weight. And already, I’ve had some candy from the evil candy dish, and then decided I was hungry – and ate my whole Clif Bar.
Damn!
This job. I start to get busy and then get munchies and then before I know it, I’ve blown my diet. It’s supposed to be better here than at home. I’m supposed to be able to control my eating. Ha ha ha.
Will definitely work on it.
Dear J.
Get a clue!
Sincerely,
Your Self.
Friday, August 20, 2004
Thursday, August 19, 2004
The Thing?
Ok, here’s the thing. I’m totally bored. And a little paranoid. G said that I should come with a sign that reads, “Warning: Paranoid when stoned.” Heeee. Well, I wouldn’t say that I was paranoid, except for that I just did. But yesterday, during the dental procedure, when they cut open my jaw and removed my icky, so yucky tooth, and then replaced some jaw bone… sounds horribly complicated, they put me to sleep, but not really. They mostly used laughing gas, and then some sleepy, IV stuff. So that I could be “responsive.” Yeah, well. You are supposed to get all dreamy, far away on the laughing gas (although some people get violent, etc). I got stoned. And then really paranoid. And between my slurring words, my mind went into overdrive—“Oh, no! You’re stoned. You’re out of control! Danger! Danger!” At which point I force myself to take relaxing, deep breaths to calm the fuck down. Except guess where the gas is coming from. But luckily, the nice, go-to-sleep now stuff started to work.
And here I am at work. Work. Where I make my living. And get paid to do stuff, that no ordinary person would do just for the hell of it. And as EB, or I prefer bitcherella, is in an extended meeting. I’m writing a little ditty.
And apparently, I’m a little lonely. I guess from being by myself all day yesterday, except that I wasn’t. I was drugged and sleepy, but I woke up. And wanted to leave. So, my not-so-thought out plan involve G and me going somewhere. But I shouldn’t drive, that much I knew. But he wouldn’t come over. So I drove, mostly asleep and met him. And we walked around a big mall, and then I drove, kinda asleep, and went home and really slept. And now, I’m lonely. And probably a little drugged.
I started this blog… and kinda had the idea that it would be based, at least somewhat, around the idea of discomfort. And so far, it has.
Here’s the thing (again). It is utterly astounding to me how we, as a populace, are always so thoroughly ill at ease. At all times. Why is that? So, I’ve been examining (not really) my own comfort level(s). And I’ve discovered: NOT MUCH. Except that I rarely feel comfortable. Truly relaxed, ya know?
Yesterday, on the way to see G, I was becoming more and more – eh, not really upset, but uncomfortable. I shouldn’t be driving. I knew I shouldn’t be. But I am strong, and I could take it. I could make it. And I kept thinking, once I get there, I will be safe. G will be waiting for me. And then he wasn’t there, as I pulled up 2 minutes before the agreed upon time. In other words, right on time. And the disappointment I felt as I rang him, and he hadn’t left home yet, was acute. But not surprising. I love him, I truly do. But the feeling of being disappointed by him is not new. Our entire relationship, it seems as if he has disappointed when I needed him. But that is not necessarily the truth. I mean, I was fine. It wasn’t a big deal. And he has come through for me more times than anyone else.
But I always feel as if those I love have disappointed me. Always. Perhaps I am like Prince’s mother and just never satisfied. Or like Bette in Beaches- always wanting attention, and I wear people out. I don’t know, but this line of questioning is making me uncomfortable.
And here I am at work. Work. Where I make my living. And get paid to do stuff, that no ordinary person would do just for the hell of it. And as EB, or I prefer bitcherella, is in an extended meeting. I’m writing a little ditty.
And apparently, I’m a little lonely. I guess from being by myself all day yesterday, except that I wasn’t. I was drugged and sleepy, but I woke up. And wanted to leave. So, my not-so-thought out plan involve G and me going somewhere. But I shouldn’t drive, that much I knew. But he wouldn’t come over. So I drove, mostly asleep and met him. And we walked around a big mall, and then I drove, kinda asleep, and went home and really slept. And now, I’m lonely. And probably a little drugged.
I started this blog… and kinda had the idea that it would be based, at least somewhat, around the idea of discomfort. And so far, it has.
Here’s the thing (again). It is utterly astounding to me how we, as a populace, are always so thoroughly ill at ease. At all times. Why is that? So, I’ve been examining (not really) my own comfort level(s). And I’ve discovered: NOT MUCH. Except that I rarely feel comfortable. Truly relaxed, ya know?
Yesterday, on the way to see G, I was becoming more and more – eh, not really upset, but uncomfortable. I shouldn’t be driving. I knew I shouldn’t be. But I am strong, and I could take it. I could make it. And I kept thinking, once I get there, I will be safe. G will be waiting for me. And then he wasn’t there, as I pulled up 2 minutes before the agreed upon time. In other words, right on time. And the disappointment I felt as I rang him, and he hadn’t left home yet, was acute. But not surprising. I love him, I truly do. But the feeling of being disappointed by him is not new. Our entire relationship, it seems as if he has disappointed when I needed him. But that is not necessarily the truth. I mean, I was fine. It wasn’t a big deal. And he has come through for me more times than anyone else.
But I always feel as if those I love have disappointed me. Always. Perhaps I am like Prince’s mother and just never satisfied. Or like Bette in Beaches- always wanting attention, and I wear people out. I don’t know, but this line of questioning is making me uncomfortable.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
After Lunch
Attempting to work. Thoughts of this stupid blog run through my head. Wanted to have the theme of discomfort run through it. So far, I think I’ve succeeded in advertising that I am uncomfortable in my own skin.
Need to do work. Address an envelope and realize that I won’t send it. My handwriting is appalling. Have to open Word to type the address. Jacksonville, FL. Wonder if those people are at work. Did Hurricane Charley tear them up? Were their homes destroyed? Was their town spared, but they get a couple of well-deserved days off? How do I know they are well deserved?
Need to do work. Address an envelope and realize that I won’t send it. My handwriting is appalling. Have to open Word to type the address. Jacksonville, FL. Wonder if those people are at work. Did Hurricane Charley tear them up? Were their homes destroyed? Was their town spared, but they get a couple of well-deserved days off? How do I know they are well deserved?
Mid Morning.
Haven’t even made my morning break, yet. Maybe I’m not more special than this. Who’s to say? A fleeting feeling that I have sometimes? Pshaw. Maybe I need to accept that this is my life. That it’s a decent life (even though I can’t make my bills).
I don’t feel like working. I feel like reading something interesting. Hello? Is there anything out there that I can read that will fill some time? No, I don’t think so. A quick glance of MSN will just waste valuable Internet time, now that I want to be the internet/worker secret agent. Need to keep my net time low. Make it seem like I’m working, even though my productivity has fallen off a cliff.
Ah ha! I’ve stumbled upon no less than 3 slate articles that I will consume like a starving man eating a ritz cracker. Ok, interesting read over, now back to work. And so I stare out my window at the passing cars, and the people parking in the lot across the street as they head off into school. I work across the street from the Bryman School. Ya know, it’s odd to me how these people (who I assume want to be nurses, but could be any number of possible jobs in the medical field) wear scrubs—even during school. I mean they aren’t going to be cutting up bloody messes, are they? Eeew! Perhaps they clean teeth, but that can’t be that messy, can it? Why, why, why do they have to wear uniforms?
I guess this is a bigger question. I absolutely loathe the idea of uniforms. I mean I get that police wear them and firefighters and military wo/men must wear them (there is a certain psychological response and respect that follows not the person but the Uniform). But school kids? And I know that parents love them, because with the price of clothing, etc. gone so crazy that this way they all wear the same thing, saving money. Except then the kids want $250 sneakers, but I digress. I once mentioned that I didn’t like the idea, and AB said to me, “Why? School is not about being individual. School is training on conformity.” This struck me as very true, and I dropped it. Because I couldn’t argue. School, at least grammar and high, was training for a life of ordinariness. It was like a giant rock tumbler for young people, take the rough edges off so you don’t stick out, go with the flow so you can fit in so you don’t get crushed. In high school, I remember feeling that I should just stop fighting and go along . . . work around the system and fit in as best as I could. But I was very individual, and I did just slip along. There was nothing remarkable about my grades or performance. I did not belong to any groups or clubs, but I was an unremarkable reporter for the school newspaper. As a matter of fact, I completely dropped out of high school my senior year, suffering from a deep depression that my parents never knew about.
If everyone wore a uniform we’d have no Breakfast Club. No Molly Ringwald in her little boots and long skirt, no Ally Sheedy in her all black and certainly no Judd Nelson looking like a boy I used to date. That is a portrait of high school. It isn’t always accurate of who we are going to be, but it is a snap shot of us, trying to find our place, trying to locate who we want to become.
I didn’t wear a uniform. And look where I am now. I never became the person I wanted to be, but maybe someday I will. I gave up cheap shoes (my personal passion) for more expensive (and ugly) Birkenstocks.
And I look out the window and wonder why those adults choose to wear a uniform--before their life has really dictated who they are going to be. Are the scrubs just scrubs or are they those students way of smoothing off their rough edges so they don’t stick out, going with the flow and fitting in?
Haven’t even made my morning break, yet. Maybe I’m not more special than this. Who’s to say? A fleeting feeling that I have sometimes? Pshaw. Maybe I need to accept that this is my life. That it’s a decent life (even though I can’t make my bills).
I don’t feel like working. I feel like reading something interesting. Hello? Is there anything out there that I can read that will fill some time? No, I don’t think so. A quick glance of MSN will just waste valuable Internet time, now that I want to be the internet/worker secret agent. Need to keep my net time low. Make it seem like I’m working, even though my productivity has fallen off a cliff.
Ah ha! I’ve stumbled upon no less than 3 slate articles that I will consume like a starving man eating a ritz cracker. Ok, interesting read over, now back to work. And so I stare out my window at the passing cars, and the people parking in the lot across the street as they head off into school. I work across the street from the Bryman School. Ya know, it’s odd to me how these people (who I assume want to be nurses, but could be any number of possible jobs in the medical field) wear scrubs—even during school. I mean they aren’t going to be cutting up bloody messes, are they? Eeew! Perhaps they clean teeth, but that can’t be that messy, can it? Why, why, why do they have to wear uniforms?
I guess this is a bigger question. I absolutely loathe the idea of uniforms. I mean I get that police wear them and firefighters and military wo/men must wear them (there is a certain psychological response and respect that follows not the person but the Uniform). But school kids? And I know that parents love them, because with the price of clothing, etc. gone so crazy that this way they all wear the same thing, saving money. Except then the kids want $250 sneakers, but I digress. I once mentioned that I didn’t like the idea, and AB said to me, “Why? School is not about being individual. School is training on conformity.” This struck me as very true, and I dropped it. Because I couldn’t argue. School, at least grammar and high, was training for a life of ordinariness. It was like a giant rock tumbler for young people, take the rough edges off so you don’t stick out, go with the flow so you can fit in so you don’t get crushed. In high school, I remember feeling that I should just stop fighting and go along . . . work around the system and fit in as best as I could. But I was very individual, and I did just slip along. There was nothing remarkable about my grades or performance. I did not belong to any groups or clubs, but I was an unremarkable reporter for the school newspaper. As a matter of fact, I completely dropped out of high school my senior year, suffering from a deep depression that my parents never knew about.
If everyone wore a uniform we’d have no Breakfast Club. No Molly Ringwald in her little boots and long skirt, no Ally Sheedy in her all black and certainly no Judd Nelson looking like a boy I used to date. That is a portrait of high school. It isn’t always accurate of who we are going to be, but it is a snap shot of us, trying to find our place, trying to locate who we want to become.
I didn’t wear a uniform. And look where I am now. I never became the person I wanted to be, but maybe someday I will. I gave up cheap shoes (my personal passion) for more expensive (and ugly) Birkenstocks.
And I look out the window and wonder why those adults choose to wear a uniform--before their life has really dictated who they are going to be. Are the scrubs just scrubs or are they those students way of smoothing off their rough edges so they don’t stick out, going with the flow and fitting in?
Goooooood Morning!!
Morning.
Why is it that the morning is so nummy? I want to lay in bed and pet the boobas. And they stretch and snuggle-and put up with each other to be closer to me. And then I jump up and decide I cannot stand the kitchen any longer. Because, in the evening I just don’t have the energy to look at the kitchen. Or walk into it. Or think about it. But in the morning- it seems ok. But ugh! RM gets up early lately. And not necessarily spoils the reverie, but interrupts it. I like my private time: when the boobas stare up at me and wonder what I’m doing, and wonder whether they are going to get a treat, and the kitchen gets cleaner inch-by-inch.
And did I mention that I am half naked? Because no one is supposed to see me, and I don’t care what I look like—it’s not as if I have full length mirrors lining the walls, or even mirrors at all, for that matter.
When you are large, heavy, you don’t have many mirrors. And I have perfected the mirror trick, I look into a small mirror, that I can only see about 3 inches of my face at a time. You get a very distorted vision of yourself that way: putting together an image – overlapping every two inches or so. But most people have a distorted self-image, I would say. Thin ones want to be-oh, I don’t know, thinner- or less hairy or bigger breasts or nicer thighs, lighter hair, straighter hair. Big ones just want to be acceptable—whatever that entails. So: thinner, taller, longer, leaner, prettier, smarter, neater, more fashionable, better paid.
Uncomfortable.
So: half naked, bending and moving and showing only heaven fears what and interrupted reverie. Oh, ok--time to take a shower, running late, anyway. Ooooh, way late!!!
Heavy morning. NO! Have nutritionist tonight! Ugh! A day early, too. Not fair! Not Fair!! Drink lots of water. Prepare water bottles. Make shake for breakfast, put in extra for lunch.
AHHH! Get to work ahead of boss! Hooray. Get stopped by do-gooder. What’s with the voice? Trying to scare me stupid with story of strep throat and kidney damage and eventual death. Long, long story. Certain it’s just allergies. Learn that her mother passed when she was 12. Very sad story. And uncomfortable. Learning stuff about someone you barely know—a certain religious person, who doesn’t necessarily seem the religious type. The hypocritical type, more like. Later, after finally done—see her talking in back of office to someone else, must note that she is boss’s pet. Come back and she announces she got in trouble because of me. Because she was talking. Uh huh, whatever.
And now, writing this for my blog. And I realize, not for the first time, that I get up happy, ready for something—more than this. And yet I come here and know… what exactly is it that I know? That I was meant for more? Yes. That I wasn’t mean to be a grunt? Yes. That I am smarter and funnier and more extraordinary than this place will ever allow me to be? Yes, yes, yes!!
But I cannot work with such disquiet; I cannot pay my bills with out a job. So I will put it away. Cover it up, bury it, until I can focus, not on my life, but on the stacks I have piled up next to me. My goal: to get my desk cleared, so I can begin again tomorrow. And tomorrow.
Why is it that the morning is so nummy? I want to lay in bed and pet the boobas. And they stretch and snuggle-and put up with each other to be closer to me. And then I jump up and decide I cannot stand the kitchen any longer. Because, in the evening I just don’t have the energy to look at the kitchen. Or walk into it. Or think about it. But in the morning- it seems ok. But ugh! RM gets up early lately. And not necessarily spoils the reverie, but interrupts it. I like my private time: when the boobas stare up at me and wonder what I’m doing, and wonder whether they are going to get a treat, and the kitchen gets cleaner inch-by-inch.
And did I mention that I am half naked? Because no one is supposed to see me, and I don’t care what I look like—it’s not as if I have full length mirrors lining the walls, or even mirrors at all, for that matter.
When you are large, heavy, you don’t have many mirrors. And I have perfected the mirror trick, I look into a small mirror, that I can only see about 3 inches of my face at a time. You get a very distorted vision of yourself that way: putting together an image – overlapping every two inches or so. But most people have a distorted self-image, I would say. Thin ones want to be-oh, I don’t know, thinner- or less hairy or bigger breasts or nicer thighs, lighter hair, straighter hair. Big ones just want to be acceptable—whatever that entails. So: thinner, taller, longer, leaner, prettier, smarter, neater, more fashionable, better paid.
Uncomfortable.
So: half naked, bending and moving and showing only heaven fears what and interrupted reverie. Oh, ok--time to take a shower, running late, anyway. Ooooh, way late!!!
Heavy morning. NO! Have nutritionist tonight! Ugh! A day early, too. Not fair! Not Fair!! Drink lots of water. Prepare water bottles. Make shake for breakfast, put in extra for lunch.
AHHH! Get to work ahead of boss! Hooray. Get stopped by do-gooder. What’s with the voice? Trying to scare me stupid with story of strep throat and kidney damage and eventual death. Long, long story. Certain it’s just allergies. Learn that her mother passed when she was 12. Very sad story. And uncomfortable. Learning stuff about someone you barely know—a certain religious person, who doesn’t necessarily seem the religious type. The hypocritical type, more like. Later, after finally done—see her talking in back of office to someone else, must note that she is boss’s pet. Come back and she announces she got in trouble because of me. Because she was talking. Uh huh, whatever.
And now, writing this for my blog. And I realize, not for the first time, that I get up happy, ready for something—more than this. And yet I come here and know… what exactly is it that I know? That I was meant for more? Yes. That I wasn’t mean to be a grunt? Yes. That I am smarter and funnier and more extraordinary than this place will ever allow me to be? Yes, yes, yes!!
But I cannot work with such disquiet; I cannot pay my bills with out a job. So I will put it away. Cover it up, bury it, until I can focus, not on my life, but on the stacks I have piled up next to me. My goal: to get my desk cleared, so I can begin again tomorrow. And tomorrow.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Brand New
Discomfort.
Disquiet.
Fidgety –
Happiness. Is it real? Is it tangible? Sometimes I think I can feel it, other times I swear I can taste it [and I’m not talking about Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia-or even cheesecake –which I’ve often equated to being better than orgasm. C’mon, the average orgasm last 2 seconds. 2 measly seconds. A good slice of cheesecake can last long, delicious, glorious, exuberant minutes building to the pinnacle of just licking the fork clean because you are spent and exhausted from all the lovely endorphins and chemicals (read sugar) rushing into your blood stream and slamming into your neuro-connectors. Closer to heaven than actual happiness.] I’m talking happiness. Does it last or is it some fleeting feeling that even our idealist forefathers knew we could not obtain and keep, hence the whole “pursuit” liability clause?
Sometimes I feel happy. Sometimes it overcomes me and I feel that I will burst from fear or joy or just shatter because I cannot contain all the simultaneous emotions I know are going to erupt and, like Mount Vesuvius, take every thing and everyone and destroy us all.
And really I know that it’s me, being crazy. Because if I feel that kind of joy, it isn’t real.
Sooner, rather than later, I’m going to fall, not necessarily hard, but just come down and be bummed. Bummed that I no longer feel elated? Possibly. But this feeling, this overpowering sadness, I would say is real, and it lasts.
But happiness, true happiness: does it exist? Is it just fleeting moments and with luck, we can string all the moments together to craft a crown or a netting that covers us, protects us, reminds us, and comforts us?
Is it a state of being—a state for your soul to reside in? Pop culture artists, authors, publishers, advertising execs, and the religious say a resounding “Yes!” Buy this book and beer and subscribe to this god and witness the beauty of the synergistic harmony of all of today and know that it is art and art is life and aren’t we happy? I just got a new Jaguar.
I’ll tell you the last time I was happy. I went dancing. Now I love dancing, or at least I used to. I loved to move with the music. I loved the way my body felt and swayed. I loved the songs and the feeling of freedom I used to get. Of course, I used to be free. I was under 18, out until 4 a.m. and had my own car. My parents trusted me-and most of the time I was just out dancing. Not much to fear. OH, yeah, and they gave me an allowance, clothe, fed and sheltered me. All I had to do was go to school, which sometimes I did.
I’m talking dancing now, or at least, last night. Going out with friends and worrying if they will have a good time, because it was my suggestion. And I think it’s a blast, but they could be uninviting to the “happiness” bird, or the laugh bug, or the silliness cootie that you can catch, but really it catches you. Luckily, I wasn’t out with antiseptic types (they stayed home). And we relaxed and enjoyed.
And I am much larger now than I was in high school. Much. (More on that later, I’m sure.) And at first I felt self-conscious about dancing. It’d been ages. In fact, I hadn’t danced in this millennium. Not even in my underwear, knowing it doesn’t make me Madonna. I hadn’t felt loose or comfortable. And I started to dance and feel self-conscious (danger: poison to dancing well), but then I had a startling thought through my 80’s self-torture: I’m at a lowly club. A club (which shall remain nameless because currently I cannot afford a lengthy, expensive trial) that, in my uninformed but highly prejudiced opinion, only holds stupid people—losers, if you will—who only want to look cool, to see and to been seen, people I don’t have the time of day for. So who cares if they think I’m fat? Who cares if they think I can’t dance? Who cares about their opinion? --They go to (insert lowly club name here), for pity’s sake!
So last night, when friends came… not just acquaintances, I was ready. Except for the nervous, will we have a good time mantra (see above). And I got out there and boogied. And it was good.
And I was free. And even (male) friend got on the floor. And I was so happy. I clapped my hands and announced it (not that anyone could hear over the racket). And I realized that I had perfected my 80’s, bored, look far away glance, the I-could-stand-to-be-here-but-I’d-rather-be-there look. And he was looking at me. And making eye contact whenever I would allow him to. And I would see a flicker. My soul matching his. A longing, a connectivity. And I would have to look away. My eyes would skim away and I would force myself to look again. But I could feel myself falling and longing.
Background: I have fallen for this person no fewer than 3 times. 3 times! What is that? We have been friends a very long time. And he is a hard person to get to know. But he is sensitive and fantastic. And I feel a certain affinity toward him. Like we have kindred spirits. Anyway, it’s been a long time, and he (although quite dense) has never wanted to go forward, or so I gather. And all his chickee’s have been small, slender type girls. I’m not slender. I’m not small. And even if I were, I am not mousy. Let’s put it this way: I’m as big as life-I’m big in every way. Loud, rambunctious, obnoxious, annoying, I have a cackle when I laugh, and you could never, never not see me (although seems like some people try). Even if he wanted to take things further-we would be a disastrous couple. I would walk all over him. Not that I would want to, I just would. I would rail all over his feelings and he’d be miserable. He’s that sensitive.
So here I am dancing and I get the floaty, uncomfortable feeling that means—what does it mean? I am in danger of drowning in his eyes, and I keep forcing myself to look back at him, to meet his gaze (it only seems polite). And I can’t stand it. I smile, I look away. I swallow. I look around and come back. I get off the dance floor. Finally, after this ritual is repeated-my disquiet has me at breaking level. I feel giddy, I feel Stupid (yes, with capital “S”). I take off my glasses. And maybe that way, I cannot see into his soul when I look into his eyes. I go smoke a friend’s cigarette. I calm down, as he didn’t come. And the happiness subsides and so does the illness, but the antsy-ness remains.
And why is it so uncomfortable to not have pavement beneath your feet? Why is it sickening to not have something familiar to cling to (ahh, lovely puff of smoke)?
Why are we uncomfortable with joy, love, freedom? (How many times have you heard of someone who just became lost/sick after retirement, because they had no place to go everyday?) Do we just trudge along because we have OCD? Were we not taught to expect more? Did we need to be taught that? Or did we have “Expect Less!” drilled into our heads until it seeped into our souls? I return to reality, laugh at myself and thank goodness that I am myself again. Dull, boring, and sad. But comfortable.
Disquiet.
Fidgety –
Happiness. Is it real? Is it tangible? Sometimes I think I can feel it, other times I swear I can taste it [and I’m not talking about Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia-or even cheesecake –which I’ve often equated to being better than orgasm. C’mon, the average orgasm last 2 seconds. 2 measly seconds. A good slice of cheesecake can last long, delicious, glorious, exuberant minutes building to the pinnacle of just licking the fork clean because you are spent and exhausted from all the lovely endorphins and chemicals (read sugar) rushing into your blood stream and slamming into your neuro-connectors. Closer to heaven than actual happiness.] I’m talking happiness. Does it last or is it some fleeting feeling that even our idealist forefathers knew we could not obtain and keep, hence the whole “pursuit” liability clause?
Sometimes I feel happy. Sometimes it overcomes me and I feel that I will burst from fear or joy or just shatter because I cannot contain all the simultaneous emotions I know are going to erupt and, like Mount Vesuvius, take every thing and everyone and destroy us all.
And really I know that it’s me, being crazy. Because if I feel that kind of joy, it isn’t real.
Sooner, rather than later, I’m going to fall, not necessarily hard, but just come down and be bummed. Bummed that I no longer feel elated? Possibly. But this feeling, this overpowering sadness, I would say is real, and it lasts.
But happiness, true happiness: does it exist? Is it just fleeting moments and with luck, we can string all the moments together to craft a crown or a netting that covers us, protects us, reminds us, and comforts us?
Is it a state of being—a state for your soul to reside in? Pop culture artists, authors, publishers, advertising execs, and the religious say a resounding “Yes!” Buy this book and beer and subscribe to this god and witness the beauty of the synergistic harmony of all of today and know that it is art and art is life and aren’t we happy? I just got a new Jaguar.
I’ll tell you the last time I was happy. I went dancing. Now I love dancing, or at least I used to. I loved to move with the music. I loved the way my body felt and swayed. I loved the songs and the feeling of freedom I used to get. Of course, I used to be free. I was under 18, out until 4 a.m. and had my own car. My parents trusted me-and most of the time I was just out dancing. Not much to fear. OH, yeah, and they gave me an allowance, clothe, fed and sheltered me. All I had to do was go to school, which sometimes I did.
I’m talking dancing now, or at least, last night. Going out with friends and worrying if they will have a good time, because it was my suggestion. And I think it’s a blast, but they could be uninviting to the “happiness” bird, or the laugh bug, or the silliness cootie that you can catch, but really it catches you. Luckily, I wasn’t out with antiseptic types (they stayed home). And we relaxed and enjoyed.
And I am much larger now than I was in high school. Much. (More on that later, I’m sure.) And at first I felt self-conscious about dancing. It’d been ages. In fact, I hadn’t danced in this millennium. Not even in my underwear, knowing it doesn’t make me Madonna. I hadn’t felt loose or comfortable. And I started to dance and feel self-conscious (danger: poison to dancing well), but then I had a startling thought through my 80’s self-torture: I’m at a lowly club. A club (which shall remain nameless because currently I cannot afford a lengthy, expensive trial) that, in my uninformed but highly prejudiced opinion, only holds stupid people—losers, if you will—who only want to look cool, to see and to been seen, people I don’t have the time of day for. So who cares if they think I’m fat? Who cares if they think I can’t dance? Who cares about their opinion? --They go to (insert lowly club name here), for pity’s sake!
So last night, when friends came… not just acquaintances, I was ready. Except for the nervous, will we have a good time mantra (see above). And I got out there and boogied. And it was good.
And I was free. And even (male) friend got on the floor. And I was so happy. I clapped my hands and announced it (not that anyone could hear over the racket). And I realized that I had perfected my 80’s, bored, look far away glance, the I-could-stand-to-be-here-but-I’d-rather-be-there look. And he was looking at me. And making eye contact whenever I would allow him to. And I would see a flicker. My soul matching his. A longing, a connectivity. And I would have to look away. My eyes would skim away and I would force myself to look again. But I could feel myself falling and longing.
Background: I have fallen for this person no fewer than 3 times. 3 times! What is that? We have been friends a very long time. And he is a hard person to get to know. But he is sensitive and fantastic. And I feel a certain affinity toward him. Like we have kindred spirits. Anyway, it’s been a long time, and he (although quite dense) has never wanted to go forward, or so I gather. And all his chickee’s have been small, slender type girls. I’m not slender. I’m not small. And even if I were, I am not mousy. Let’s put it this way: I’m as big as life-I’m big in every way. Loud, rambunctious, obnoxious, annoying, I have a cackle when I laugh, and you could never, never not see me (although seems like some people try). Even if he wanted to take things further-we would be a disastrous couple. I would walk all over him. Not that I would want to, I just would. I would rail all over his feelings and he’d be miserable. He’s that sensitive.
So here I am dancing and I get the floaty, uncomfortable feeling that means—what does it mean? I am in danger of drowning in his eyes, and I keep forcing myself to look back at him, to meet his gaze (it only seems polite). And I can’t stand it. I smile, I look away. I swallow. I look around and come back. I get off the dance floor. Finally, after this ritual is repeated-my disquiet has me at breaking level. I feel giddy, I feel Stupid (yes, with capital “S”). I take off my glasses. And maybe that way, I cannot see into his soul when I look into his eyes. I go smoke a friend’s cigarette. I calm down, as he didn’t come. And the happiness subsides and so does the illness, but the antsy-ness remains.
And why is it so uncomfortable to not have pavement beneath your feet? Why is it sickening to not have something familiar to cling to (ahh, lovely puff of smoke)?
Why are we uncomfortable with joy, love, freedom? (How many times have you heard of someone who just became lost/sick after retirement, because they had no place to go everyday?) Do we just trudge along because we have OCD? Were we not taught to expect more? Did we need to be taught that? Or did we have “Expect Less!” drilled into our heads until it seeped into our souls? I return to reality, laugh at myself and thank goodness that I am myself again. Dull, boring, and sad. But comfortable.
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