Thud.

I am disappointed that I currently have nothing to say. No riffs, no snark, no recycled gossip. Nada.

No rants about inner pain or a squelched inner child or paper-thin worn aspirational dreams. Nothing.

There are a few complaints: the disgust with my body, misshapen as it is; the seemingly unshakeable fatigue. But no real details or new revelations to speak of.

How boring.

Zzzzz.

TODAY is the greatest....

Day I have ever known.

Tom Cruise's 24/7 interpetive dance of the concept of insanity continued last week, culminating in his taking on the ever even-keeled Matt Lauer on the Today show about the evils of psychiatry and other such "truths" as T.C. knows them. Here is the oh-so priceless illustrated version. And, in case you missed the actual exchange, here it is.

Damn, maybe Mr. Cruise is right - maybe psychiatry is unnecessary - because the longer he keeps up this behavior, the more sane I do tend to feel, if only by comparison.

News: Greatly Exaggerated

Contrary to popular opinion (and the astounding radio silence), I am in fact alive (or at least putting forth a reasonable facsimile thereof).

That would be a cool band name: A Reasonable Facsimile Thereof. Then again a name that long inevitably invites shortening, oftentimes to an ill-thought out acronym: A.R.F.T....yeah, not so cool.

Good thing that, of the many talents I possess (including an appreciation for the lost art of speaking softly but walking loudly, uncannily locating the one thing that is not on sale in a store and then lusting after it unrelentingly, and the ability to get lost repeatedly on my way to places I have been even more repeatedly), the ability to create music (at least in any form that does not induce spontaneous bleeeding) is not one of them. So I am always coming up with band names, but never will they be used...

Another thing that is not necessarily a talent of mine: Trapeze.

Yes, you heard correctly, I said Trapeze.

Now you might think to yourself that it might not be the wisest idea in the world for a woman who got five stitches in her chin last year due to a precipitous tumble she took walking down the street to be launching herself off of a 40 foot platform into the air on the strength of what is essentially an overgrown bird perch. If you also consider that she would be attempting this feat in front of approximately 10 of her co-workers. Then you would be right.

Actually the trapeze itself worked out okay. I apparently take little issue (with the assurance of a safety harness and cords) with hurling my body off of a slender platform. Tumbling downwards rapidly toward the ground, generally not an issue for me. More of a default state really. The prospect of having to hook my knees over the bar of the swing/perch/trapeze (still not sure what the right term is) was certainly more daunting. Managed it the first time, but only after a succession of misattempts, which left me hanging upside down - motionless - on a perch that is supposed to still be swinging through the air (during which you stick your arms out and arch your back, reaching out at though someone on another swing is going to catch you - which, once you advance, will be the case). Felt an uncanny resemblance to an overgrown fruit bat. Would have analogized myself to Fifty Cent in that description just now, but visually, that leap can't be made, and not even because of the ethnic and gender inconsistencies between us. Fitty's got abs. I, apparently, fail to even have traces of such muscle. It took me longer to get off of the trapeze/swing, than it took me to get myself hooked onto it, due to the aforementioned lack of abs, and thus a continual failure to be able to curl my body up from the hanging position to reach up and grab the bar and thus unhook my legs.

No elegant curling and unhooking for me. It was more flopping and flailing. Sort of like Mike Meyers' Sprockets' dance on SNL, except upside down and hanging from a trapeze swing.

Not exactly the picture of grace, but a victory nonetheless. Why? In part because I overcame my fear - of freezing on the platform, of completely failing to do what I was supposed to once becoming a hurling projectile, and of totally embarassing myself. But mostly because of one simple fact: NO BLOOD.

See, prior to my short, if not eventful, trapezing career, I was taking a turn on the trampoline. Not your dinky Richard Simmons Sweating to the Oldies trampoline. Or even the Johnny's Got This Kick-Ass Trampoline In His Backyard That We Hang Out On Every Day After School kind of trampoline. This was Olympic Grade trampoline. And, man, was it bouncy.

So bouncy, that it allowed me to jump up and down and tuck and roll in the air. Higher and higher. Up and up. And around. Twist. Bouncing, Bouncing. Whee. Damn, I am good at this. Sure, I can do that scissor kick. I can kick my legs out in a sort of splits in the air and touch my toes the way the cheerleaders always do. Nevermind the fact that I have never done the splits in my whole life and that on terra firma, despite my short legs, I have issues trying to touch my toes. Here I go....

Thunk.

And here I look up at the ceiling as I am laying on the corner of the trampoline, the wind and any residual air knocked out of me, my left eye and part of my temple throbbing, five of my co-workers and the instructor standing over me asking if I am okay.

I am okay. Fine. Fine. Nothing to see her. Swelling, bruising not a problem. As long as there is no blood, it's a victory.

And it is.

Punchline: I woke up the next morning feeling the pain of the bruise on my eye as I squinted to greet the sunlight of the morning, but really that was nothing in comparison with the pain that was the throbbing of my knee. Looking down as I swung my legs out of bed to greet the cold floor and begin the day, I saw it. Very nice eggplant colored welt on my knee. As you see, it was my knee that had hit me in the face the day before. And thus the results of my own twisted social experiment end as follows: It is conclusive that my head is in fact harder than my knee.

Would it be weird if we called the tyke Stuart Stewart?

This is why, despite the fact that he is short and, well, already married, I want to have Jon Stewart's babies.

Inertia, My Old Friend

I am tired.

No real reason to be. No legitimate hectic pace at work or in my social life (shocking, I know). But am (il)legitimately exhausted.

Being a bundle of nerves is draining.

Wish that I were more productive, but at this point my attention span seems to be slightly less lengthy than the life-cycle of a fruit fly.

Have decided that, if I had my druthers, I would be a sportswriter. Why? Because sportswriters, more specifically, sports columnists are paid to be snarky and irreverant. The gushing and sucking up is left to the on-field/side line interviewers. Yes, Pedro Gomez, Lisa Guerrero and all the rest, I am questioning your legitimacy as sports journalists. Quelle horreur! Mon dieu! The relaying of hard stats and off-beat random facts are left to the play-by-play guys, the color commentators, and the beat writers (except for Joe Morgan, who is simply a blight on every broadcast which the audience is forced to endure him. No, Joe, no one cares to hear for the 38th time this inning that you played for the Big Red Machine and that you are in the Hall of Fame and that you think Moneyball is a load of crap. Someone has to get on getting some federal funding for a study into exactly how many murderous rampages were precipitated by the irritating sound of his nails-on-chalk-board hemming-and-hawing voice. Bet if Ted Kozinski ever gets his marbles back he would say it was Joe's voice that drove him to write his manifesto and to adopt such chic fashion directives...). Further, unlike sports anchors, sportswriters are even unencumbered of the need to be particularly snappy and/or cute. No one ever sees them and catch phrases are of minimal importance. Then again, a quick scan of the ESPN and the general Wide World of Sports landscape reveals that this may not even be such a stringent requirement for even sports anchors these days. Stuart Scott: "Boo-yah!"? Really? Still? Anything new? And the eye thing. I didn't want to say it. But it gets to me. You are always looking at me. Even when I am way over.... here! Bob Costas: Don't ever interview basketball players live again. It makes you look like early Opie of Andy Griffith fame. Chris Berman: Pink is not a good color on a large man. Not so slimming. Really. Just poached salmony-looking.

Guess when it is all said and done, I want to be Bill Simmons. Ah, the Sportguy. He gets to snark at his leisure about sports, pop culture, whatever. And everyone loves him.

Really what's not to like about a gig like that.

Break Out the Tupperware

Random assortment of leftovers.

Debilitating flare-up of adult onset ADD this week has left me thoroughly unable to ride even my own train of thought to its ultimate destination.

So all we've got are re-heated, odds 'n ends leftovers. Yeah, it's a tuna casserole type entry kind of evening. Little of this, little of that.

- People will come Ray, people will most definitely come. My new BF, Huston Street, is at it again. Latest installment of his ESPN column (which I suppose he has time to write as the save opps he has are so few and far between these days. Though they did just win their first road series since April. I can go either way on that: Either it is nourishment for the seed of hope that the season is not an entire loss, or Huddy felt sorry for them and had the new team go easy on the old one. Leaning conspiracy theory at this point - probably the less painful option in the long run.) Anyway as I was saying, Huston has written again, and it is brilliant. Fresh-faced, sincere, poetic, and expressive. Our fave section:

I was once asked what I enjoyed most about baseball. I quickly answered, "Every day." I can't think of a better way to spend an afternoon than chasing baseballs around a big field of bright green, perfectly cut grass. It is the feeling of a well-executed slider, and watching the ball fall just below the bat. No matter what happened yesterday or is happening today, I know tomorrow when I wake up I'll have a new opportunity to
play.
Shortly after the first question, I was asked what I least enjoyed
about baseball. I thought for a moment and then replied, "Every day." The grass isn't so green when you're 0-for-your-last-25. I can't explain how frustrating it is when I throw my best slider and watch it get crushed into the gap, and two runners high-five after crossing home plate. The worst part of it is that tomorrow when I wake up I will have to do it all over again. How can the same response answer and give meaning to two exactly opposite questions?
This game is simply about timing and perspective. A home run in the first
inning that provides the go-ahead runs doesn't display the heroics of a
ninth-inning blast that delivers the same outcome. Similarly, a booted ball followed by a double play doesn't draw even close to the condemnation of a booted ball followed by a homer.
During my short two months in the majors, I've been told numerous times (and been forced to realize myself) that the only way to remain sane is to remain the same.
Ups and downs will happen. A hard-hit ball needs to be thought of as a hard-hit ball regardless of the outcome. Sometimes you just have to tip your cap because big-league hitters hit big-league pitches.

Love him.

- Abs. So. Blooming. Lutely. A wee bit more about the "pretty" men (of the A&F type, not RuPaul type). The argument is often made to me about this preference (fetish? obsession?) of mine, that a "pretty" man is lacking in depth, in other/many/all areas, other than his looks, and therefore is not worth my time. A completely Pretty-ist and discriminatory point of view, if I must say. Then again, my lust may bias me.

While I generally disagree with this P.O.V., I think there is at least room for discussion about the topic on couple of fronts:

The distinction between having been pretty your whole life versus having gone through that awkward stage and then evolved into that "nerdy boy makes good by uncannily impersonating greek god at his high school reunion" type. One can make the argument that having been pretty your whole life, you never had to "struggle" for social acceptance and overall popularity. Your looks were enough, so you never had to really work on developing anything else (intellect, artistic talent, a knack for witty repartee, a generosity in intimate matters, what have you...). Thus, by relying on your looks your whole life, your other talents/abilities withered and atrophied from lack of use. On the other hand, the "nerdy boy makes good" type (aka the male version of Rachel Lee Cooke in She's All That, or any other teen movie for that matter), like a person born without the aid of one or more of his five senses, must learn to compensate with the remaining senses he's got and therefore they become acute and amazing in their strenth and depth (think the ear that Ray Charles' blindness granted him, or the perspective and talents that Helen Keller's dual loss of hearing and sight brought to her). Or, in a less euphemistic way, being ugly meant that you had to have some other schtick for getting people to like you - you had to be the smart kid willing to tutor others, you had to be the pop culture whiz, the amazing music prodigy, the convivial joker at every party. Now that you have grown up, you are still all of those things, and, hosannah! hallelujah! and amen! you are also a total hottie. Perfect package.

On a surface level those arguments seem all well and good, but here is the problem. No accounting for insecurities - on both sides of the fence. The always pretty person may have an easier time of it socially, but he also carries the dual crosses of (1) the scars of being continually underestimated because no one has ever been able (has ever wanted to?) see beyond the pretty package, and (2) the insecurity that everything he has is tied to his looks, and when the beauty fades, as it all eventually does, that he will have nothing left to offer, and thus his life as he knows it will fade as well.

The nerdy boy made good, oddly enough, shoulders a dual-burden which is the fraternal twin of that which the always pretty boy does. The nerdy boy made good must carry (1) the scars of being ignored, made fun of, disliked, discarded and/or deprived before he grew up, all based on how he looked, and (2) the insecurity that the attractiveness that is now, in his adulthood, finally his, will melt away as quickly and stealthily as it appeared, and then he will have to go back. Back to when it was harder. When he was ignored. When it hurt.

The always pretty boy looks in the mirror and is perpetually afraid of what he may become. The nerdy boy makes good looks in the mirror and is perpetually afraid of what he was.

At the end of the day, everyone's just afraid.

Shaking off one's inner fat kid, or one's Dorian Gray, is harder than one thinks.

So the point of all of this rigamarole: Don't hate them because they are beautiful. An ass-hole is an ass-hole and a mensch (sic?) is a mensch, whether the package comes with a bow and shiny paper or a brown wrapper. While we all have personal preferences as to what the package might look like, all we are really looking for in life is the right person to help us with carrying around our luggage. And truth of the matter is, no one is flying footloose and fancy free, checked or carried on, everyone's got luggage baby.

Ah, To Hell With Substance...

I have a need to be frank for a moment (and I am not referring to my inner-70 year old man who can't seem to get enough of a very dry Hendrick's gin & tonics, or who always seems to compel me to use random words that have not been spoken out loud in this millenium at the most inappropriate times: Think the use of the phrase, "OMG, he is such a curmudgeon!" used liberally and often in conversation on a first date. Is it any wonder I am about 3 weeks away from purchasing several cats and becoming that "girl"?). Actually, I don't want to be frank, I want to be shallow. Not just happenstance shallow, as is my default state, but unboundedly, rampantly, insouciantly shallow. In short, shallow without apologies (the best kind).

So let's talk "pretty" here. Somehow in the last week, it seems that people have been talking about their "types" and what they find attractive more than usual. It is hard to tell why, I think it probably is some combination of El Nino, it being the year of the Rat, and (most likely) the release of Mr. and Mrs. Smith this weekend (I find the trailers for that film almost blinding in the dazzling display of beauty they capture. Some of it is him, but it is especially her. She is gorgeous, but she's also captivating. Would that I were that captivating (and it didn't require marrying the terminally fugly B.B. Thornton and wearing vials of blood around my neck)). In any event, without question, everyone's standards of the butter-melting factor of the appearance of others is different, however, I have found there is a sort of spectrum that emerges. At least it is true for me, and thus, unsolicited by anyone, I share:

In particular, re. male beauty, it appears that there is a spectrum. It seems to slide from an appreciation for the plaintive scowls of Russell Crowe (and some fanatical obsession with his fleshy thighs in Gladiator) (obviously, I am trying to understand, but just don't get it - although I guess it's not every day you see the uber-macho fellow in what is, for all intents and purposes, a skirt) to the elfin, delicacy of Legolas, ummm, I mean Orlando Bloom (swooning over someone you could probably pick up and carry over the threshold after your wedding is just something I don't get...).

The sick obsession with Cro-Damon, the neanderthal outfielder, seems to stem more from the Russell Crowe side of the spectrum. The apparent fascination with Hayden Christianson, who always looks like those three diamond anniversary stone deBeers commercials would drive him to tears, is from the Orlando Bloom side. Vin Diesel, side o' beef with eyes, a Crowe-ite. Justin Timberlake, a bit like a shorn chicken, more Bloom-ish.

Then there are the total outliers, who while you could probably categorize them on the above- spectrum are in fact, simply too painful, and thus defy categorization. Examples here, Senor Fred Durst: Claims of having bedded every recently broken up pop tart of the moment aside, though one might say he is Crowe-ish, really he just makes you want to gauge your own eyes out with a pen. Well, maybe that's a little much. But our next contestant does come pretty close to inspiring such desperate behavior: J.Lo, you have not chosen wisely, Marc Anthony is conceivably the most painful looking man on the planet. Besides being pocket sized, I am pretty sure he has been dead for several years. Lenin probably looks more alive at this point. If forced to choose, we could stick him on the Bloom side of the scale, not only for his diminutive size, but for the additional LOR connection: His uncanny resemblance to Gollum. The ring is clearly the only way he has gotten a Miss Universe, and a Miss I Own The Universe to marry him. (Note: Perhaps like Tommy Lee, and his bevvy of blondes, maybe there is something there we are not seeing. Umm, maybe not.)

Speaking of other people's claims to beauty that I don't get: I also think that most of the young (and not so young) starlets in Hollywood, despite the eOnline breathless pronouncements of their beauty, are starting to look more and more like drag queens. They look absolutely wrung out. See, e.g., Lindsay Lohan (76 lbs, appears to be 56 year old menthol chain smoking waitress named Velma), Nicollette Sheridan (nipped, tucked... in the Nip/Tuck season finale kind of way), Paris Hilton (kick-ass ANTM body, I will give her, but here's the truth no one wants to admit: She looks like an alien creature, or that she might have a case of the Penelope Cruz'es - who I am utterly convinced, at least when she is photographed at certain angles, that she has dwarfism. Also, Paris' hair is not naturally blonde and her eyes are not actually blue. It appears that when it comes to Ms. Hilton, there is not even a surface to scratch); Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen (apart from the fact that they dress like bag ladies, weight 12 pounds, and their penchant for large plastic sunglasses alternately make them look like the lady from the Old Navy commercials a few years back, child impersonators of flamboyant-era Elton John (is there any other kind?) or Sofia from the Golden Girls. Also, while I am well aware that they have, like, a kajillion dollars from direct-to-video saccharine sweet kids movies, and there was the decade of Full House - which through the magic of syndication appears to be on TV even more often than the Proactiv infomercial, and which always leaves me breathless trying to figure out the mind-boggling amount a free-standing house of that size in a tony SF neighborhood would run -- what have they done lately? Does New York Minute a legitimate film career make? Then again, Paris is so convinced that "The Simple Life" and House of Wax constitute a career that she has made a formal announcement of her retirement plans. Paris and Mike Tyson in the same week. I don't know if my world can take such disruption. I bet Tom Cruise would offer them all vitamins out of concern for their career death-spirals.) Mariah Carey. (Oh Mariah, you used to be so hot, and now, you are not quite Nicollette Sheridan-bad, but you do have a very Victor-Victoria look about you. Mimi, indeed.)

Yes, I am a bitch. I know. Kinda running with it today, so bear with me.

But in case you don't want to, let's switch gears and talk pretty: Jake Gyllenhall. Paul Walker. Jason Lewis. Josh Duhamel. Patrick Dempsey. Taye Diggs. Bradley Cooper. Moving on to the sporting world: LeBron James, Brett Favre, Ian Thorpe, David Beckam, Andy Roddick, Tom Brady, Mark Mulder... ah, the list goes on and on....

Also, in the Title IX spirit of equality, as for the ladies: Jessica Alba, Terri Hatcher, Mia Hamm, Angelina Jolie, Angie Harmon, Scarlett Johansson. Gwyneth Paltrow. Courtney Cox. Jennifer Aniston. Salma Hayek. Lovely are they all.

Looking at these preferences in cold relief of the typed page, it appears the preferences are clear: I have a seemingly incurable obsession with tall Abercrombie&Fitch looking types. Nothing but the uber-pretty for me. Oh, and one wonders why I am always lacking in dates on major national holidays?

There are, of course, the outliers, who I find attractive for reasons I cannot explain (if only that they don't fit the aforementioned mold): Jon Stewart. Eminem. David Duchovny (maybe, it's just a Mulder-fixation...)

Must also note, that even those that I have claimed to eschew appreciation of (members of the Crowe-Bloom spectrum), I do find attractive when wearing short, preferably buzz cut, type hair. See, e.g. Orlando Bloom in Blackhawk Down. Russell Crowe in Gladiator. And, dare I say it (hell, I dare - as I've clearly lost all credibility here) even Johnny Damon was not quite so loathsome when he wasn't channeling Chris Robinson. Rob Thomas looks infinitely better to me these days sporting the shorn look. Jake Gyllenhall's latest coif is truly yummy. Yes, my military affinity (dare I say, compulsion? pathology? runs very, very deep).

Potent Potables

And just so you don't think me completely lost in the depths of my own pathos, or so at least you have something more interesting to read that my self-centered pity parties, here is a collection of random things I have been meaning to get to, but haven't:

• Always a sucker for a man in uniform (and it doesn't hurt if he is smart, tall, and can throw a nasty slider): It appears Huston Street, the 21 year old fresh-faced closer for the somnambulent, but perhaps awakening Oakland A's is, in the Paul Shirley tradition, an insightful and eloquent player-as-sports-scribe. Street is writing an ongoing diary for ESPN.com. He is not as snarky as our Mr. Shirley, but his earnestness (anyone who exudes a love of the game is alright by me) and his eloquence (he uses the words "garner", "pique" and the phrase "putting stock in" amonst others... oh, swoon!), certainly make him worthy of admiration. If only from afar (given that he is just 21... though Cameron and Justin have overcome a larger age gap... but then again, that means he was born in '83. Dear god.)
• Irrepressible, devoted, and with peals of laughter: A Love Story of Half a Century. Rebecca Traister's moving tribute to the amazing and unparalleled union between Anne Bancroft and Mel Brooks, upon her untimely passing, is a fitting elegy for a woman who exuded class, grace and emotional depth in every move she made, every word she spoke. Her life, her love, a monument to us all. This quote of Ms. Bancroft's (re. what she said to her psychiatrist upon meeting Mr. Brooks in 1956) says it all: "Let's speed this process up [I said to my psychiatrist] -- I've met the right man. I'd never had so much pleasure being with another human being. I wanted him to enjoy me too. It was that simple."
• Bitch, please!: This was the appropos message from Brooke Shields to Tom Cruise (well, paraphrased a bit by author here who has been channeling Dave Chappelle, apparently in more ways than one, as of late). Brooke came out swinging. Apparently she didn't need the Blog-universe's collective outrage in her defense, she can take care of the slings and arrows tossed by hobbit-like cult members very well on her own, thank you: And Shields has continued her war of words against Cruise following his "dangerous" comments, by offering him a child ticket so he can take Holmes to see her in hit London musical CHICAGO. She says, "If he wants to see Chicago, I've left him two tickets - one adult, one child." The actress recently took a swipe at Cruise's religious beliefs, by saying she wouldn't take advice from someone who devotes his life to aliens. So yeah, Lord Xenu, put that in your pipe and smoke it! Oh and in further proof that the t-shirt is mightier than the sword, click here.

Touchy Feely. No, Just Touchy.

Would that there were more "feely" in my life. Perhaps, I wouldn't be so goddamned paranoid - perpetually strung out on my own anxiety.

But as there is no "feely" there is only "touchy." And how.

My touchiness has reached such a degree that even the most inoffensive and unconscious slights on the parts of others create disproportionate searing wounds.

My living situation - not positive - but likely tolerable and weathered much better by someone who actually has perspective and language to give to her emotions so as to communicate like a rational adult. Somehow, I stumbled upon some coherent words at the beginning of this week (dame fortune, she smiles, or at least smirks, at even the most wretched and undeserving of us at some point): I talked. They talked back. A complete mending of fences it wasn't, but a detente of cordiality seems to have been reached.

And so, I then am left to focus more on the twin rivers of hostility I feel flowing around me via the banks of the offices surrounding mine at work. They are the Tigris and the Euphrates. I am Mesopotamia. Ah, who are we kidding, I am Iraq. Chaos and blight, occupied and containing several warring factions of varying ethnicity and origin. There is never good news coming from me. *Sigh* Do they hate me because I am odd or am I odd because they hate me? "Hate" is a strong word. I *am* being melodramatic. It's really worse than that in many ways because it is complete indifference. These two people walk back and forth past my office every day, as they do sit on either side of me, and nary a word is spoken. Then again, it may really be for the best. I am not exactly a bundle of fun these days and the amount of energy necessary to generate even a reasonable facsimile of conversation is seemingly inordinate. Given that it is summer associate season and therefore *every* night is punctuated by some event or Happy Hour, and *every* day is another opportunity for a lush two hour lunch all of problems are exacerbated. Even under normal circumstances, I think it would be a little much to have a fancy lunch and cocktail hours/dinner. Right now, I just can't. I really can't. So I say no, and try to politely decline. And I look weird and anti-social and hideous and pathetic, all at the same time. But I don't know that I would be better off if I accepted all invitations that came my way (or insinuated myself into the groups I see going on around me - Tigris and Euphrates do *not* invite me to anything) - if you do not drink, odd looks are bestowed upon you. My conversational skills as of late are clearly not going to win me any points. I am so tired, I cannot drink and/or have big meals 5 and 6 days a week. I can't. I barely hold it together as it is. I feel I can't tell people this. It isn't an explanation. It would clearly just be an excuse. How sad. But the truth is, I am sure everyone knows. I am a fucking nervous wreck and no one wants anything to do with me. Not really such a big deal with most folks. Casual acquaintances and work colleagues: It should not be for them to bear. It just hurts when your friends, or at least people you thought were your friends, think you are weird and want nothing to do with you. Tigris and Euphrates make me sad.

All of this being said: I realize that this is all probably in my head and I can't distinguish it. And that it isn't fair of me to expect anyone to perform hand-holding duties for me about now. It is definitely healthier to avoid me, and in fact, should be encouraged. But it still makes me sad.

I have a doctors appointment tomorrow. Missing last week apparently was definitely not a good idea. Maybe it is time to reconsider the meds as I am getting nowhere fast and the list of folks I have alienated is growing to double digits.

Pretty soon my depression will grant me my wish: I will be totally and utterly alone. Or else I am going to end up on that show on Bravo, Intervention, looking all puffy and red from uncontrollable crying agreeing to get on some plane at midnight with the clothes on my back and fresh bottle of Paxil. Or maybe Tome Cruise can get me some vitamins....

The Wisdom of a Fool

So, after some contemplation, it seems to me that the truth of the matter is this:

My entire life is governed by a need for/struggle towards/failure to attain control. The irony of my failure in this area is that the only thing that I desire to control is the only thing I do actually have power over in this life - myself. I choose to be a megalomaniacal, totalitarian regime of country of one. I strive to be dictator of the fiefdom that is me. However, so far, I have been more like the impotent PTA-president (continually outvoted and outmanned by my vociferous constituents) of my own domain, more than anything else.

Because I do not feel that I have control of my life - my emotions, my actions, my trajectory moving forward - I am afraid. My life is punctuated by the twin quotation marks of fear (open quote) and guilt (close quote), which book-end a seemingly john-jacob-jingleheimershmidt-ian perpetual internal discourse of free-form self-loathing, angst, narcissism and over-analysis. It is a profoundly frustrating and ultimately boring conversation to be sure. Much like the Yule-Log on TV around the holidays: Boring and adding no value - via entertainment, enrichment or otherwise - yet somehow oddly comforting after all of these years, if only for its complete and utter lack of variance. And so one tunes in, year after year, The Christmas Story marathon or It's A Wonderful Life be damned. Both presently and ultimately, the Yule-Log resolves nothing - it does not adhere to the story-arc principles of the half-hour sit-com, the hour-long quirky dramedy, or the formulaic voted-off-the-island reality show. It just burns. Continuously. Unendingly. It just is.

And so go my internal dialogues - interrogations, soliloquys, cross-examinations, voir dires, rapid-fire exchanges, opening and closing arguments by turn. Seeking an answer (resolution? conclusion?): Control. Never finding (achieving? mastering?) it.

I always thought fear was a symptom of my lack of control, but looking at it now, in diagram form as described above:

FEAR self-loathing (occasional funny snarky remarks) angst (fiendish devotion to celebrity gossip) narcissism (contemplation of random trivia - baseball or otherwise) over-analysis (unfettered shopping) GUILT, exclaimed CONTROL (LACK THERE-OF)

I see that, in fact, it is my fear is the prefatory factor here, it is what sparks all of the sypmptoms. Fear is what drives my perpetual lack of control. Guilt is just day-old fear, fear past its expiration date when the bacteria of worry has also set in to slightly change its character (and its smell?). So in fact the diagram of the sentence should actually look like this:

FEAR shrieked, self-loathing (occasional funny snarky remarks) angst (fiendish devotion to celebrity gossip) narcissism (contemplation of random trivia - baseball or otherwise) over-analysis (unfettered shopping) worry guilt CONTROL (LACK THERE-OF).

It is not a perfect analogy. I am still working out the kinks. But it is closer. Closer to the truth. The truth is out there. I have long known that anything I have ever done in life that has been worthwhile has scared the absolute bejeezus out of me: going to college three thousand miles from home, starting a job in a place and a company I had very little familiarity with, asking the powers that be at said job to let me make moves (professionally and geographically), breaking up with my BF of 4 years. All of these things, not easy, not even necessarily joy-inducing in their immediate result, but ultimately, the right and the only thing for me. And after making every one of these decisions, there was a strange and wonderful moment, a reprieve from the infinite spiral of chaos and anxiety. It was control. I did it. It was mine. It was a gift I gave myself through the courage of my actions. It was, however, ephemeral. This may not be the case for everyone, but I think my wiring is such that control (stability? the feeling of well-being?) is just not my default setting. I have to work to make sure the switch is keyed in to the control mode. And it's tricky. Especially when your default is fear, as it is trying to move from 1st to 5th gear all the time.

What is also ephemeral for me is that in those brief moments of control, I learn exactly how false the fear really is. I can do anything. It might not always turn out the way I would like, but I can do it. I will not burst into flames if I tell someone about my adverse feelings towards them. There may be adverse consequences (i.e. they may be angry with me, they may choose not to be my friend anymore etc.) but is that worse than the pain (the paralysis? the inertia?) of fear? Maybe so. Maybe not. It is all a situation that must be weighed. But the thick and heavy veils of fear are not easy to pull away from the mind's eye, and they screen out the rational and the pragmatic. There is no balance with fear, there is only hysteria. With fear, the scales are always tipped. No wonder the house always wins. And I'm always broke.

But lest this be another rant, spouting forth paragraph upon paragraph and meaning nothing, here is the conclusion (the truth of the matter alluded to (promised?) above):

Less Fear = More Control = Much happier Me.

And seeing as how objective consideration of how the fear attached to a situation is generally illusory (Using the phone to call the pizza guy is not scary! Showing up to that college fundraiser is not scary! Work happy hour is not scary! Making a doctor's appointment is not scary! Telling X person that what they said hurt your feelings is not scary!) is not really helpful, the only remedy appears to be to plow ahead, in spite of the fear and its nasty little comments in your ear (Talk to your roommates about the issue - look! You didn't explode into flames! Make the call to the personal trainer - go to appointments - see! You didn't shatter into a million pieces! Tell your brother you think he has been an ass and that his behavior over the last few months has been awful - okay, so he cried - but still, it ended up okay! You are talking to each other more now and you did not in fact melt into a puddle of goo!).

Eventually, I have to believe the fear must dissipate. If not ever wholly, then to a point where it is at least more manageable (tolerable? at bay?).

"Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear" - Mark Twain

Of course, given that all of this has been offered for the truth, it could just all be hearsay....

This is what happens when you don't have Tivo...

When you don't have a TiVo and you are prone to fits of malaise and melancholy, posts like the one below result. Disclaimer/Post Script provided before the fact/Pre-mature Punchline: I wrote this last night after getting home from an evening excursion out for drinks with colleagues where I felt about as sociable as bathroom mold (and about as popular and well-liked as well). The true accounting of what happened, we'll never know. What lies below is a paniched, over the top recounting of my many miseries. I shudder to read it now, if only that I was greeted today by several life lessons. Some jarring, some more gentle. First, A friend is dealing with the sudden life-threatening stroke inflicted upon her mother. She saw it happen, she now sits in the ICU holding her mother's hand, hoping she will make it through the night. This, unlike all the other static of my daily life, is true cause for heartbreak. The static is luxury, this is hard truth. My heart just hurts for her. My parents are crazy, but they are healthy. They are okay. I flout it, and yet fortune smiles on me. Second, A friend whose face I have not seen live and in person for several years, through divine intervention and work related functions, was immediate and available today and we had a discussion that comes only with the familiarity and quality of friendship that allows for a two year absence of immediacy and yet allows you to pick up right where you left off as though no time has passed. It is a trust that does not expire. He reminded me that the gift I have is the freedom and the ability to control my present, my day to day life, my right now. I know this. But somehow a friendly face and voice of reason echoing the sentiment at such a time and place seemed oddly appropriate and incredibly resonant. As always, the burden of implementation rests within me. There is a certainty and an assurance in today, in the moment. A responsibility to enjoy, to appreciate. To give meaning. To give. The rest is speculation. So on that note, the drivel below is provided only because, in the interest of being a full and accurate documentarian of my own crazy, I ought to put it out there. If only as a lesson of what to avoid....

There is a commercial-length infomercial on TV right now for one of the many
magic bullets of weight-loss. Its name is unimportant (and unretained by the
author). The commercial is seemingly uncanny though because every time I flip
past it, or I actually pause from my relative stupor that sets in during the
commercial break (Ah, the much needed two minute and thirty second respite I
needed from my persistent vegetative state of enraptured Law & Order
viewing. Sweet leisure!) to take notice for a fleeting second, the commercial
seems to continually be braying this same refrain, “Tired of trying to get rid
of stubborn belly fat?” And somehow this anthropomorphic incantation sticks in
my mind. Not just because I am tired of trying to get rid of my stubborn belly
fat (though it does give me an added sense of security that I have increased my
buoyancy, and have thus my chances of survival, at least five-fold in case of a
water landing) but because it is true: Belly fat, born of the same mold as inner
thigh fat, saddle bags, and cottage cheese butt, is truly damn stubborn.
Infuriating, vexing, perplexing, maddening and stress inducing as well. But
tempestuous as it character may be, belly fat is no match in its nefariousness
for a concept I would like to anoint as “head fat.”

Head Fat, not to be
confused with “fat head” (read: narcissistic, having a high opinion of oneself,
or, alternatively, someone with a large and literally inflated noggin) is a
figurative concept. An apt descriptor for an insidious metaphysical state. My
self-loathing (and all of the anxiety, guilt and misery which flow directly from
it) is a prime example of head fat. It is stubborn as all hell. Stubborn head
fat. Mule-like head fat. Jack-ass head fat. It won’t go away, no matter what I
seem to do to exercise, exorcise, excise it away. Much like my stubborn belly
fat (SBF), I am vigilant about trying to eliminate my stubborn head fat (SHF)
for a limited period of time. I begin to see results, I believe I am fine. It is
good enough. I believe I have bought myself some leeway. And I fall back upon my
old ways. And it comes back. But much like the SBF, the SHF never really went
away. I never really made the improvements I thought I did, because the changes
were ephemeral. I treated them as permanent before I knew them to actually be
so.

I am tired of the stubborn head fat. I wonder if I can every win the
battle of the bulge over-sized gourd.

My latest covert op/cover of
darkness assault on the SHF is Operation Smile and Nod aka Operation Eat Your
Peas. As of the SHF has left me drained and tired. I have no energy to even
pretend to be interesting, witty and/or remotely worthwhile. When things get
this way, I get into a trench warfare mentality, differing from the traditional
metaphor, in that I build the proverbial trench of isolation (with just enough
contact so as not to seem too weird , because apparently sort of weird and
extremely odd is just fine) for purposes of facilitating my hiding. There will
be neither a frontal attack nor even any kind of salient defense mounted from
the trench. The trench is a monument to inertia and fear. It is a lame attempt
at stasis. It is a misguided vision of a world where I cause no one trouble nor
pain. It is, in short, self defeating and a waste of time.

The longer I
stay in my self-imposed trench of sorts, the worse my situation becomes. It
becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, most clearly played out in the contempt or
worse, indifference, in the eyes of people I had thought to be allies/friends. I
want to save people from the devouring effect of my SHF – to hide away so as to
leave them unaffected – but even in the hiding there is an effect. And I can’t
ever seem to get past the pain the loneliness (self-imposed as it may be) seems
to inflict.

So Operation Smile and Nod is this: No energy for dealing
with anyone but my closest circle of friends, but I must make sure to smooth out
the social waters with all of the rest of the people in my life (my friends
thousands of miles away, my acquaintances at work, my colleagues at work, the
people at work who I thought were my friends who know treat me as though I am
barely an acquaintance). It is better for me to get out and participate in the
world.