I worked with a guy with whom I occasionally had conversations about music. His tastes were eclectic like mine, and we had several favorite artists in common. One day, he asked me if I’d heard of a particular band. I told him no, he did a fist pump, said something about finally finding someone I’d never heard, and told me they were good and he thought I’d like them.
That’s enough of an endorsement for me. I’ll listen to anything once, so I went home and looked ’em up and gave it a go.
Meh.
I wanted to like them, for no other reason than to be able to have something to discuss with him the next day. But… meh. He posted links to more of their music on my Facebook wall, and I made half-assed comments, trying in vain to avoid just typing out “meh” in response to each one.
Wait, what was the point of this story? Oh. Here it is:
It’s impossible to force yourself to like something. Such as a band.
Or eggs.
Oh, eggs.
You look so good. Honestly, you do. You are so ubiquitous, appearing on every brunch menu in the history of [non-vegan] brunch menus. You are versatile. And cheap. You are everywhere, and I try so hard to enjoy you…
I ordered you awhile back. You came fried on what sounded like the Most Delicious Breakfast Sandwich Ever. You sat, all pretty and egg-like atop spinach and bacon and swiss on an English muffin. You were placed before me, and I was excited: this! this would be it! The meal that made Julie love eggs. It was a historical moment.
So why’d you have to go and ruin it with your texture? Why did you have to feel that way in my mouth? Why, eggs, WHY? My delight crumbled, and all sandwich-induced happiness was summarily snuffed out with one single bite.
I’ve not given up on you, but is this a lost cause? Am I wasting time and money in this thus far fruitless quest?
The best way (sometimes the only way) for me to accept some of life’s curveballs is to trust that I was thrown them for a reason. I may go down swinging this time, but in a few innings or so, I’ve got to believe that some good will come of it.
In the meantime, my particular strikeout is another’s gain. I don’t mean that in a negative way; if you truly believe that we’re all playing one big intersquad game for Team Humankind, someone’s gotta throw that strikeout. It can’t be all walk-off home runs for everyone, every time.
In reality, that other person(s)’ gain doesn’t necessarily come instantaneously with my loss.* But eventually, things even themselves out: maybe I show them the tape of that at-bat so they don’t make the same mistakes I made. Maybe I end up using my bad experience to help someone through their own bad experience. That kind of thing.
When I think about it that way (and trust, it’s not always easy. Oy), it makes the less-than-pleasant daily grind of life much more manageable.
True story: I’m interested in a guy. I think he’s interested in me. We go out. I think we have a good time. I say “let’s do this again,” he says “um, maybe let’s not,” then tries to soften the blow: You know how it goes: it’s not you it’s me, you’re a great person, we just didn’t click, blah blah blah blah. Among the compliments he drops in his approximately 45 paragraph long Facebook message: “You have an excellent grasp of the English language.”
I don’t know if I’m ever going to have kids. I’m not saying this in a negative, woe-is-me, kind of way. It’s just a fact. When I was a kid myself, I imagined that I’d be married and have at least, oh, 5 of them running around by now. At that time, 18 seemed ancient (and good, solid marryin’ age apparently), so I’d mos def have a high schooler by the time I was 32. Right?
Wrong.
I find myself thinking about children a lot lately – not for myself, but the concept in general – because BFFF and her Husbando are in Full Throttle Adoption Mode. Things are clickin’ for them, folks, and it’s wonderful and exciting (edit: her blog about the process is wonderful and hilarious and insightful and worth a click or two. Please check it out).
Anyway, my deep thoughts have produced a few conclusions:
1. Babies are cute, but they scare me.
I’ve always been a little freaked out by them, but by the time my friends started poppin’ out their own offspring I was certifiably terrified. No, I do not want to hold it. No, I’m not sure I even want to touch it. No, no, little Junior doesn’t disgust me. The dirty diapers and excess of bodily fluids doesn’t bother me too much, actually. It’s their size. So damn delicate! I won’t even pick up my friend’s cat (and that thing is the chillest, sturdiest motherfucker I’ve ever known. Cat-wise, that is) much less a tiny, limp human being. Too much damage potential. No thank you.
As a point of reference, the last baby I held is starting kindergarten soon. The entire time, his mom was making one of those smile-grimace faces and doing that reach-out-hesitate thing, saying things like “um, well, he doesn’t like to be held like that… um, have you done this before?”
No, ma’am. I certainly have not and I do not care to repeat this experience.
2. I don’t want to think about where babies come from.
Pregnancy isn’t beautiful. It is terrifying and disgusting. A friend who is pregnant with her first child keeps talking about how awesome it is when she feels the baby move. If she ever grabs my hand and puts it on her belly when this happens so help me God she’s going to walk away from that experience with a black eye. It’ll be an involuntary punch, but it’ll land.
The thought of a living, growing THING inside of me is horrifying. I can’t make it any more clear. And to think about that THING bursting forth from my lady parts or (worse, still) being ripped out of my guts by a surgeon? FUCK no.
3. I have terrible genes.
Any child I bear will be genetically fucked. He’ll be born half-blind, and need a billion dollars’ worth of corrective eye surgeries. He will have funky-ass crooked teeth and a fucked up jaw that will require massive amounts of orthodontia, because it won’t be “well, he can get it fixed when he’s older” it’ll be “well, he’s not able to properly chew food, so that might pose a problem…”
As he grows up, his brain will be riddled with some sort of mental illness. Perhaps crippling anxiety? Or the persistent black hole of chronic depression? Maybe he’ll win the genetic lottery and get both! And then he’ll die of cancer. Or heart disease. Or have heart disease for awhile, then eventually die of cancer. Best of both worlds.
On the plus side, there’s always the outside chance he’ll have red hair. *crosses fingers*
Okay, okay. I know I could change my mind. Maybe I’ll get myself knocked up and become one of those earthy, granola ladies who get plaster casts made of their bellies and give birth in an inflatable kiddie pool and eat their placentas and never shut the fuck up about how beautiful it is to be with child. And then maybe I’ll wear the kid in a sheet tied around my neck for the first 3 years of his life. And maybe the individual with whom I spawn will have Super Genes and we’ll produce a baby with perfect vision and great teeth and a permanent sunny disposition and who never in his life will feel the soul-crushing urge to drink himself into oblivion after a hard day at work.
I’m okay with standing corrected, overall. Though, for the record, I deserve to take a right cross to the face if I ever grab someone’s hand and put it on my pregnant stomach. So help me God.
Also, the earthy granola lady I’m imagining is Maggie Gyllenhaal in Away We Go. I love this movie. You should check it out:
1.I got a new oven. I got home from work on Monday, saw that the clock on my oven was on, said “Yay, they fixed my oven,” and that was that. THEN when I woke up the next day I was all like “Man, Imma cook some bacon because THE STOVE WORKS NOW! Then I saw that there was a chip in the top of it. “They must’ve chipped it when they moved it,” I thought, assuming at this point that the oven had been “fixed” by unplugging it and plugging it back in. Then I looked closely at the burner. “Wow, that looks a lot cleaner than I remember.” Then, slowly, it dawned on me. Is it? Could it be? There was only one way to find out… I opened the oven itself.
It was fuckin’ IMMACULATE. Absolutely NO apple pie filling baked on ANYWHERE, which might have been an issue with the last one. Ahem.
In short: YESSSSSSSSSS.
P.S. It works like an absolute dream. It pre-heats in what feels like milliseconds but is more likely just a normal length of time for fully-functioning ovens. And did I mention it’s clean? Spic-and-freaking-span, y’all. Just beautiful.
2. I got new windows! And I didn’t even have to break the old ones first! As part of some complex-wide improvifications, every single apartment in every single building got new windows. Flippin’ sweet, guys. The tentative install date for my building was Monday (or Oven Day as it shall be known henceforth), and we were instructed to move everything away from the windows in order to give the guys room to work. Seeing as my bed is right next to the window, and I assumed they’d start work at Ass o’ Clock, I leaned the frame and box spring up against the bedroom wall and moved the mattress itself into the living room to sleep. This way, I figured if they came barging in at the aforementioned Unholiest of Hours (see: any time before 10:00 am), I wouldn’t have to scramble to get things out of the way.
Except they didn’t show up on Monday.
Or Tuesday.
Delayed by rain (and, oh, the fact that there were approximately 34938 windows to install first – my building was last on the agenda), they arrived Wednesday. Meaning, I slept on the mattress on the floor for three nights. Which, for the record, was AWESOME. Something about being directly on the floor, sans box spring, somehow made the bed much more comfy. Also, I had it pushed into the L where the sofa and loveseat meet, making my entire living room one big multi-level bed-like surface. And if that ain’t a dream come true, I don’t know what to tell ya, other than you’re probably not an inherently lazy person who is excited by the prospect of sleeping in a sunken next of every blanket and pillow you own. Also, you’re a weirdo.
When the window bros arrived at last, Bro #1 was quick to thank me for moving my furniture out of way, claiming I’m the only one who did it. Bro #2 was weirded out by the mattress in the living room, asking if I’d had a slumber party the night before. I laughed, thinking he was joking, and told him yes. Then he asked if I had kids or something, and I realized we were no longer on the same page. Get off my back, Window Bro. Just be happy I didn’t make you move that heavy-ass kitchen table. You’re welcome, and don’t judge the Blanket Pit. It’s the goddamn comfiest thing you’ll ever experience in your entire life and that is absolutely not an exaggeration. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make some cookies, because I HAVE AN OVEN THAT WORKS.
On Thursday I baked heated up some ciabatta rolls for sandwiches. I fried up some bacon, sautéed up some chicken, bought some fresh spinach, sliced up some tomatoes… Sandwich nirvana, let me tell ya. I took the bread out of the oven and set it on the counter while I finished the bacon. Then I turned around to slice up the bread and noticed whoops! Forgot to turn off the oven! I do this a lot. I once left my oven on for, um, over 24 hours.* So I went to switch it off except…it was already off. Odd.
I fiddled with the dial again, remembering the time that the knob broke on Juanita’s dryer and how we had to jiggle it around in order to get the dryer to do what we wanted. Before the rest of the parts caught up and the entire dryer eventually died, we’d all just learned that when it was in the “off” position, it was actually on “normal dry.” So I twisted my oven dial around a few times and even tried to push it in – which is not how it has EVER worked, but desperate times, eh? – and still nothin.’
Iiiiinteresting.
At this point, I was genuinely lost. What the fuck was I supposed to do? I posted a Facebook status to that effect, then realized that the oven can’t be on if it doesn’t have power. So I flipped the breaker (thank JESUS that particular breaker isn’t tired to ANYTHING else). Meanwhile, I got a trillion responses to my post – almost all of them to the effect of “well, if you never stop USING the oven, it won’t be a problem if it won’t turn off. So bake me some cookies. Thanks.” Meanwhile, I tried to flip the breaker again and I’ll be damned if the oven didn’t just turn back on.
Well, shit.
Because keeping the breaker in the off position seemed to fix the issue, I didn’t see it necessary to call Maintenance Bro after hours to take a look. But that was before I realized that it’d be Monday (today) before I’d be able to get ahold of him during “normal” hours.
Long story short: hopefully it gets fixed today, or (best case scenario) the whole thing is shot and I get a new oven…
*In my defense, it was the day before T’s wedding and I’d just made cupcakes for the reception and was also hosting another bridesmaid at my apartment and it was TOTES MAGOTES CRAY CRAY ALL UP IN MY HIZZY. I got back home after the reception and, yep. Oven was still on. At least it was November. Otherwise I’m sure the paint would have been melting off of the walls. Aaaanyway.
…but when I do, it’s because of days like Thursday.
For me, things seem so much more Worst Case Scenario at night. Your doorbell rings at 2:00 am and it’s the scariest thing you’ve ever heard.* The phone rings at 4:00 am and it’s certainly Terrible News. You get yourself caught up in a bummer of a mood and there’s no sunshine to go outside and bask in and zap away all the icky thoughts. That’s partially what happened to me Thursday. And while a surprise 90-minute phone conversation at about 2:30 am (NOT Terrible News**) helped to alleviate it, I think sleep was the primary cure.
I woke up the next morning (er, later that morning, I guess). The sun was shining, it was a beautiful day, and I’d been granted the sweet relief and fresh perspective that only several hours of sleep could provide me.
I’m mostly posting this because I’m certain I’m not the only one who experiences this. Not every day (holy SHIT that would be terrible!), but at least once in a while, yes? I’ve got a Wikipedia-fueled theory that this is some sort of neuro-chemical reaction, as our brains are pretty sensitive to changes in daylight. If you’re feeling particularly nerdy, read about the suprachiasmatic nucleus. It’s the thing in our brains that regulates our circadian rhythm. Very interesting. Uh, to me at least.
That’s really all I got. Just wanted to check back in and let all three of you know that I’m doin’ aight now.
*When I was a kid, the doorbell at my parents’ house once went through a fit of malfunctioning during which it would ring by itself, sometimes in the middle of the night. It was as if it got pressed in, and several hours later would pop back out and activate the chime. It was a little creepy during the day…SUPER creepy during the night.
**This is a great benefit of having more and more friends who are night owls. I no longer break out into a cold sweat when my phone rings that late. Of course, I’m often up already.
I thought myself into a hole tonight. Has that ever happened to you? Man, it’s the worst. One little thing leads your brain to another little thing and on and on until it’s the end of the goddamn world.
The worst part of it all? You know it’s all bullshit. You know that, under different circumstances – the moon, the tide, your brain chemistry, what you fucking ate for breakfast – if any of that were different, you’d be fine. Water off a duck’s back. But instead all these little thoughts are snagged like burrs on your brain and you can’t shake them. Actually, shaking makes it worse.
And then maybe someone tries to engage you, but too bad for them because your brain is just not having it. And you try to fight your way through this mental quicksand but man, it’s exhausting.
I have absolutely no indication that I won’t have my shit straight by tomorrow, but for now: ugh. Just ugh.
First, here’s my preface:
I don’t consider myself to be a “runner.” I don’t run regularly. I don’t run fast. I don’t run far. I probably don’t even do it right. I will probably end up with debilitating arthritis in my knees and two broken feet from a terrible running stride. But I’ll be damned if I don’t enjoy doing it, and here’s why:
I don’t run for exercise. I run for my mental health. Nothing, absolutely nothing, clears my mind like going for a run. Even if the run itself is going badly and I feel like my feet are encased in concrete and I’m miserable and slow and can’t breathe, I’m not thinking about whatever-it-was I was thinking about before I started. I’m thinking about how awful this run is. Honestly, though? Nine times out of 10 that feeling-of-awfulness is quickly replaced by just not giving any fucks. Because even if I ran approximately 0.003 of a mile over the course of 8 hours I just did something instead of letting myself get buried deeper inside my own head. That is the point. That is why I run.
The cleared-head thing is a wonderful reward in itself. Sometimes, though, it gets even better than that.
Take last night for example:
I’d barely slept the night before, and ended up sleeping until past noon. Then I’d spent most of the day inside, took a nap too late in the day that lasted too long, and made only half-assed attempts to interact with anyone. An iChat convo with BFFF and a quick trip to Target with Juanita broke up the day, but that was it.
Anyway, I was feeling pretty yucky, head-wise. So at about 10 pm, I decided I’d go take a walk. Full disclosure: I had every intention of walking up to the store for a bottle of wine. Because that’s how my brain works sometimes. Lovely.
But as I was leaving my apartment, I took a right turn instead of a left. And as soon as I hit the sidewalk, I started running. I sort of giggled to myself at first, because I swear that was not my intention. Something in my brain – the self-preservation part, I’m sure – clicked on and took over and yup. There I went.
And I kept going. I just floated on through the intersection where I usually slow down or stop altogether. And that’s when I knew something Good was happening.
This is an analogy I’ve thought of before, but haven’t shared: to me, running is like sex. I know right away whether I’m going to get there. I know within the first few seconds whether my brain and/or body is actually into it or if it’ll be a mediocre, semi-satisfying, experience. I’ve tried to trick my brain into thinking things are going well, but it never works. I try to imagine great runs I’ve had before and conjure up those feelings, but I just can’t force it. I mean, I realize it’s not always going to be fantastic, but I’m almost always able to derive some pleasure from the experience.
Sometimes, though, I have an experience like last night’s. I felt like I was fucking flying down the road. My pace was good, my breathing was completely under control, my legs were light. I felt amazing. Just fucking fantastic. The brain-clouds parted and I just… no words. I hear people talk about a runner’s high, and I don’t know if that’s what I experienced, but I do know that I certainly felt like I was on another plane of existence for awhile there. Like, whoa. I started doing that thing where I internally narrate what’s happening to me, because I couldn’t wait to tell my gentleman friend how fucking awesome I felt. (side note: when I actually spoke to him later, all I could say was ‘mmmm. it was good,’ and make grunts of satisfaction into the phone. I am a sparkling conversationalist, let me tell ya). I rode that wave long after I came home. It. Was. Awesome.
If that isn’t good for one’s mental health, I don’t know what is.
Six years ago today, they told him he was going to die. I mean, maybe not in so many words, but the implication was there. 18% survival rate for this type of cancer, they said. Stage 4. The worst kind of shit. You’ll be lucky if you get a solid year.
I honestly can’t remember if I found out THAT day, but it was soon enough after. And I was in shock. Like, seriously? No. No way. I was in shock. Disbelief. I waved it off. Nope. Not real.
The same day, I went to the mall. The news and the trip were unrelated; I think I’d been planning on going that day anyway? Whatever. I found myself in one of those shoe stores that sell $6,000 Nikes and Adidas in every color of the neon goddamned rainbow. I bought some sandals. I brought them to the counter. The guy rang me up, then motioned to a display to my right.
“Do you want to buy a Livestrong bracelet for a dollar?”
And I froze. And I stopped breathing. And my heart pounded in my chest. And I couldn’t speak. I nodded. I motioned back at the bracelets. He threw one in my bag. And I walked out of the store, completely and totally dazed. Because THAT is when it sank in. THAT is when I realized that things would never, ever, ever be the same.
I wore that bracelet every fucking day. Every day. I felt naked without it. It became my Thing. I was teased. I was admired. I was convinced that if I were to take it off, something Terrible would happen. After all, I am superstitious (sometimes) to a fault. Borderline diagnosable in these sorts of situations, really.
The day that it broke – I literally wore it until it just snapped into two pieces – I cried. Because it meant something Terrible was going to happen. I immediately bought another. Hell, I ordered a ton more so I could pass them around. And always have a backup, of course.
But instead of something Terrible, something as magical as my convoluted thinking happened: he got better. Remission. No more cancer. He kicked its fucking ass, y’all. Did it like it was fucking nothing. 18%? Whatever, chumps.
I continued to wear the bracelet for at least a few years after. I slowly wore it less and less, as I saw just how well he was doing and my anxiety gradually faded. I don’t wear it at all anymore, really. And while there was a time when I would have almost felt ashamed to say that, I know now that it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.
Because I got to keep my fucking friend around awhile longer.
I love ya, B. Continue to live strong, you bad ass motherfucker.
the sloppy copy 
