In which I think about what an asshole I’ve always been, even to myself.
I’ve turned into very nearly everything for which I have ever felt contempt.
Here are some examples:
Fat? Check.
Pampered and lazy, with a litany of psychosomatic, social, and political complaints anyway? Check.
Reaches a certain age and, unoriginally, watches English period pieces, and paints, unironically, with watercolors? Check. Unhip, and occasionally even boring-seeming, life partner? Check. Tomato plants in the yard, even after a lifetime of not gardening? Check. Houseplants in tacky plastic pots I would not have been caught dead with in my 20’s or 30’s? Check.
Just walked through the building, to and from the laundry room, with my old, fat, unshaven, mottled legs exposed, braless and gross? Check!
Even as few as five years ago, at gigs, I’d eyeball women the age and shape I am now, and think, “Why on earth are you dressed like that? Don’t you know how your bra straps leave furrows in your shoulder fat, how your spare tire looks so square from the back?” I was offended that people could be out, in public, having fun while unbeautiful, even as I believed myself unbeautiful.
I felt discomfort seeing older women with thinning hair only slightly less intense than I used to feel seeing amputees or victims of fire. Now my own hair is well on its way to being fuzz by the time I’m 60, like my father’s mother’s was (although she was ill by then, so maybe it’s not genetic).
I have always, always, always judged the fat, the unbeautiful, and the unwell, even without intending. I couldn’t even conceive of any condition that could truly affect a life without being visible or serious. It took ten years of a panic disorder for me to develop real compassion for invisible suffering, like depression or chronic pain or even the anguish of an unhappy, unfulfilled life. I had to get fat myself before my heart could understand how truly fucking hard obese people have it, from the sheer strain of hauling bulk around to all the little discomforts of joints and edema and rashes.
I never meant to inwardly recoil from everything not ideal. It was never intentional, but I was born without a compassionate bone in my body, it seems. And it’s taken me forty years to quit caring about what shit looks like on the surface and really understand what lies within, the souls themselves.
Because, as it turns out, most of the beautiful people are assholes, and most of the “ugly” people are wonderful.
Today, day three of acute anxiety, I had a bit of a revelation. I had just come up from the laundry room and caught sight of myself in the hall mirror and again in my monitor as I sat down at my desk and really noticed my passing thoughts: “God, you’re fat. Look at you, you’re hideous. So ugly.”
The anxiety I’d been trying so hard to turn upward, into excitement — we are, after all, leaving in the morning for a weekend with Amma, and I should be happy, not in the misery of fear and anxiety — suddenly seemed deserving of compassion. Is anyone truly compassionate who is so mean to herself? So instead of trying to change my anxiety into happiness, I just looked at myself and thought, “You poor baby, you’re okay, you can be loved.”
And the attack stopped.
I mean, my leg’s still bouncing, but that’s okay; I’m not fucking suffering. I’m so ashamed of my disorder; I am one of the world’s most fortunate and lucky people. I’m never hungry, never cold, never afraid of real things. I’m not sick, I’m not in pain, I have free time and I get to sleep until I wake up every day, but I suffer. A made-up, not real suffering I judge myself for.
~+~
Okay, turns out that was a lie. It didn’t stop, it just eased off. It’s trying to come back now, the “Oh! I feel dizzy! Weak! My fingers are numb! There must be something wrong with me. Oh, I’ll never be able to travel like this.” The fear, fear, fear.
I so don’t want to develop fucking agoraphobia. I’m at the point now where just standing waiting for the light to change on Lyndale makes me twitch and bounce and tap.
But it’s okay that I’m afraid. It’s okay to have sensations. It’s okay to be fat, 48, frequently idle, and nervous. It’s okay, Michelle, you’re okay. Not everybody is the judgemental asshole you are; lots of people can look at you without disgust, even. You have a disorder lots of people have. You hardly do it on purpose. And, before you object, you do try to mitigate it! You do walk, bike, stretch, meditate. You have maybe a cup of coffee per day; you rarely eat sugar; your vape juice is only 6mg.
Remember hormones, too: it was only a 26-day cycle. Very short. Who knows what’s going on with those hormones, eh?
…I wish I didn’t have to work tonight; I should have taken it off. Oh, well, it’s only four hours, and right here at my own desk. But it would be better if, after Scott gets home, we could eat, pack, and nap until the unreasonably early taxi pick-up.
Oh, I want a cuddle so much just now, but I’ll soldier on and put the laundry in the dryer instead.
In which I ate out.
My mister has the crud and stayed home from work today. We spent all day napping and cuddling. I didn’t manage to get into the shower until four in the afternoon!
Put on some old kohl eyeliner, because why not. Threw on some Thai fisherman’s pants, tossed my traveler’s journal crap into my backpack, and waddled over to Eat Street.
I think I thought I was headed for Bad Waitress Diner, but I ended up at Little Tijuana instead, where the food is mediocre but filling and the staff are nice as hell. Ate, doodled on the butcher paper they use for tablecloths, and journaled. Waddled home an hour later.
Opened the fridge to grab some cream for my iced coffee and oh my but the stench was serious! My pinto beans had gone off; not sure why, because I regularly keep them in the fridge for a week or more, but there you were: stinky beans. Had to pour them down the toilet.
It’s my night off so I should be doing something, but I’m just sitting at my desk fucking about on the internet. I’d like to go to a pub quiz but they’re all on Mondays, and I always work Mondays. Might just go sit in a coffee shop or something; really should get out and enjoy the neighborhood while the temperature is reasonable.
In which I’m just watching my mind be an asshole, because that’s what you do.
I smoked cigarettes for 30 years. I was at the point where my lungs felt dry, I couldn’t get a deep breath, and walking three blocks made me pant.
I quit smoking by switching to vaping, because patches and gum didn’t work, and I wasn’t willing to try Chantix. When I made the switch, I read everything I could find about vaping and determined that vaping was not zero-harm, but was most probably significantly lower harm than smoking.
That was a year ago. My lungs feel much, much better! I can walk to Pancho Villa’s and back without panting. My voice sounds better. I don’t think about smoking at all, and I think about vaping very little: when leaving the house I no longer feel compelled to bring my nicotine delivery system, I just go. It’s great.
The other day I read a Skeptical Raptor round-up about vaping. The take-away was, essentially, we don’t know what, if any, harms are associated with vaping, really, but it does seem like you might maybe possibly be exposing yourself to more formaldehyde than you should. Aaaaaand my stupid brain latched onto that, and I spent the rest of the day being afraid of vaping but doing it anyway. And like a tongue worrying a loose tooth, my mind is still trying to be upset about the topic and provide me not with solutions, but just vague dread and worry and self-pity. Nothing like, “Well, perhaps it’s time to set a plan for quitting vaping,” just vague dread. Nothing like, “Is your need to vape greater than your fear of possible formaldehyde over-exposure?” Just nervousness and anxiety and feeling bad.
Another example. Human hair sheds all the time, constantly. For me, about every 36 months I experience a few months of my hair shedding out more heavily than usual, probably because for some reason there are just a bunch of follicles on the same cycle, and because I’m vain and aging is weird, I dislike it. I mentioned my feels about hair shedding on social media yesterday and two people were all HAVE YOU CHECKED UR THYROID. So I rolled my eyes and went and looked up the information on hypo- and hyperthyroidism again, and yes, while I do have a number of the symptoms mentioned, half are from the hypo- side and the other half are from the hyper- side, so, yeah, no. It’s much more likely I’m subject to normal shedding cycles and, based on my older relatives’ hair, genes, thanks.
But now my stupid mind is trying to obsess over those “symptoms,” all of which are also consistent with hormonal changes typical to women of my age, while ignoring all the symptoms I don’t have and the fact that you can’t have a simultaneously over- AND underactive thyroid. It’s trying to give me an anxiety attack. Because it’s a bastard.
I’m not sick. Nothing hurts. My life is so nice that I never use an alarm clock! I sleep, every day, until I wake up naturally! I live a block or three from everything. I have incredibly fast fiber-to-the-home, money in the bank, and two vacations planned! I am pampered, lucky, well-cared for, and fine.
Except for my stupid mind, which wants me to have anxiety and panic attacks anyway. It wants me to be afraid of things over which I have no control, while frequently ignoring things I should be afraid of — it let me smoke for 30 years, unironically! It let me do cocaine, a street drug of unknowable dosage and provenance, for several years, without a peep of worry — and obsessing instead over dumb things! My mind is afraid of the regulated, properly-dosed OTC drugs you might buy to treat a bad cold, but was never worried about street drugs. Because it fucking sucks at risk-assessment and is irrational.
Conclusion: my mind is an idiot, and, because it never shows up when there’s actual statistical likelihood of danger (riding in a car, for example), anxiety is non-information and should always be ignored.
In which I’m just saying stuff I’ve already said because it’s Sunday afternoon and I have nothing better to do but repeat myself. I mean, this is literally just a re-do of a post I’ve already written, only with newer pictures!
Step one: Don’t have heard of Midori traveler’s notebooks or bullet journaling. Live in ignorant bliss.
Step two: Hear about Midori traveler’s notebooks and bullet journaling. Fall down a rabbit hole of Instagram, blogs, reviews, walk-throughs, YouTube videos, and stationery stores specializing in Japanese imports.
Step three: Judge the shit out of the entire thing. Be offended by the waste. People with stacks of journals, massive collections of pens, inks, adults with sticker sets, washi tapes! Tons of unnecessary crap! All you need is a single writing utensil and a $2 notebook!
Step four: End up a few months later with three notebooks, gel pens, pen cases, a large set of colored pencils, watercolor paints, binder clips, a set of highlighters, a cheap fountain pen, book darts, washi tapes, a washi tape dispenser, numerous inserts from several suppliers, kraft folders, sticker sets, writing boards, lead pencils, and repair kits, and feel like an asshole.
Especially about the off-brand stuff you no longer want you bought because it was cheaper than the name brand. Because honestly, the Midori stuff is superior. It really is so simple and well-designed and a pleasure to use.
Step five: Realize over and over that you adore your traveler’s notebook, and that it makes you happy every time you handle it or even see it. It’s taken months and a lot of switching things around, but you’ve finally got it just right. Admit that this particular rabbit hole has, yes, separated you from some of your disposable income, but it’s also provided you with hours of enjoyable writing, sketching, drawing, and painting.
It gets you offline.
You end up doing an Instagram doodle challenge, even though you have no artistic training or talent! It only takes a few minutes a day, and it’s fun!
I now have four inserts in my MTN. The first one is a kraft paper folder for loose items and pad of Midori sticky notes. Then there’s a custom dot grid insert for my journal, a Midori monthly calendar insert for my work schedule and travel plans, and a ruled insert I use for my spiritual diary. I also have sticker pockets inside the front and back covers, a pen holder, an OM pendant off an old necklace, and a binder clip. The thing is finally exactly how I want it, and works for my needs.
I also have the knock-off September Leather cover I bought first, basically set up the same way (sticky notes and all) except it’s totally empty. I don’t need it and I don’t use it, and I’d happily give it away if I knew anybody who wanted it. The calendar insert is weekly, rather than monthly, but it’s basically a duplicate.
I do currently use a Midori insert for sketches and painting, but it’s not in a notebook because it’s easier when it’s flat. When I’ve filled it, I’ll get a block of regular watercolor paper unless my life is radically different than it is now and I’m on a massive travel schedule or something!
retweeted a statistic about how the vast majority of dairy-related illnesses are due to raw dairy products
(probably the trendy ones, drunk by hipsters and science-haters, rather than, you know, actual dairy farmers or small-holders drinking the stuff in their ranch houses, because with their knowledge they’re highly unlikely to poison themselves, amirite)
and now people on social media are telling me dumb shit about how ‘all factory farmed milk has pus in it!’ (no, it doesn’t, because ‘pus’ isn’t a thing) and ‘nobody ever got sick from raw milk!’ (lol, clearly not true, bro) and pasteurization kills essential nutrition and
OMG THE STUPID
not only do we know that raw dairy, improperly handled, which is super likely when the market is so far from the consumer, makes people sick, but
it takes literally fractions of a second to learn about the modern dairy industry’s checks and balances (here’s a single example about how romantic notions about milk are wrong) plus,
WHOA THE FDA EXISTS
Ye fuckin’ gawds i just can’t
EVEN
the chiropractics
the naturopathics
the anti-vax
the vegans and smoothie-drinkers and pseudo-yoga practitioners (yoga is a method of enlightenment, not an exercise regime, for fuck’s sake)
the ‘cure cancer with alkaline diets’ crazies…
WHY ARE WE SO WILLING TO BE DUMB WHEN WE HAVE SO MUCH KNOWLEDGE
yes, i’d love absolutely fresh diary, i guess. if i had a cow or goat and milked her myself, well, i’d drink it unpasteurized, if i had total control over the entire supply chain, from her udder to my face
(but seriously, i don’t want to breed them every season or two and figure out what to do with the calves or kids and i know from my aunt that quadrupeds are not inexpensive to keep healthy and i live in a fucking uptown apartment so the odds of my ever having access to FRESH raw milk is NONE)
and if i left the pail out in the sun for half an hour while fucking with my laundry or some shit, i’d probably heat it before consuming it, because fuck puking, really
…but commercial raw dairy? even from earnest, small producers? um, not so much. i prefer my milk pasteurized and unhomogenized. because even earnest, small producers cannot guarantee that their milk is held in perfect conditions at all times, from the teat to my fridge, unless they bring the shit to my house themselves.
when there’s a simple, effective method for killing any potential contaminants that does not measurably alter milk’s nutrients, why not use it?
oh, but MUSH, heating the milk destroys the nutrition!
does it, then? um, no. no, there’s no evidence that’s true, meaningfully. i mean, maybe someday there will be methods for proving that supposition, but today, no. the money’s on not poisoning yourself when you don’t have to.
plus, what’s wrong with heating the stuff? don’t we heat our milk more often than not, using it in coffee, in recipes?
In which there was a sensation and I freaked the fuck out: another boring-ass post about my anxiety disorder, because I bring the content!
Woke up weirdly early, like 7:30 or so, and though I did try, I couldn’t get back to sleep. Eventually got really hungry, as one does if she’s awake long enough, so got up and had a cup of coffee, and made some hash browns, facon, and a poached egg.
After eating I went outside and dug up a bit of the turf where the tomatoes will go, then came in and swept the kitchen and living room, and hand-scrubbed the kitchen floor. Go, me!
Sat down on my ass in front of the computer, found a show to watch on Acorn (‘Delicious,’ with Dawn French, which is much darker than I’d expected because I guess I’d assumed it was a comedy). Scrolled Twitter and Facebook like an asshole, as if it were some sort of reward for doing a couple of chores rather than an absolute and utter waste of time. Realized it’d been hours since I’d eaten already and that I was hungry again, damn it. Was going to eat leftover rice and chickpea curry, but they’d gone off, so I threw some veggie tots in the oven. Mixed up a little bit of fry sauce while they baked.
Brought my treat to my desk, pushed play on the vid, and began to eat, cross-legged in my office chair, chin a couple of inches above the surface of the desk.
Sudden, weird fluttering in my chest, like a bird trapped. No pain or discomfort, lasted maybe three seconds, but scared the shit out of me. During, I stuck my index on my pulse but by the time I’d found it the flutter was over and my heartbeat seemed, well, fine, if a little fast. Realized I was slouched forward and so I sat up straight, adrenaline just coursing through me because holy fuck did my heart just fuck up?!?!… and burped.
Sat here freaking the fuck out for a moment, as you do when you have a panic disorder, then started googling shit like ‘esophageal flutter.’ Burped again. Immediately realized that searching symptoms would just end in shit about heart defects and cause a full-fledged panic attack, so I closed the tab, breathed deep, and pulled my plate to me.
Finished eating my tiny plate of tots, had a couple more burps, and… well, haven’t died.
My shoulders are so tight they’re up by my ears now, and I have the nervous energy and delusion that I’m dizzy and bouncy leg of a fairly acute anxiety attack, so I’ll need to get up and go do laundry or something, to keep myself moving until I forget I’m nervous.
Who am I kidding, I’ll probably just sit here and marinate in my own juices.
Ah, fuck the dread. Seriously. Although I guess I’d rather have the dread of modern living rather than, say, the plague, or the various other much more dangerous afflictions of the past. The dread fucking sucks, but at least it isn’t actually fatal.
Sigh.
In which there’s an appointment.
It had clouded over a little, sure, and was only in the 50’s when I checked the weather, but it didn’t say anything about rain online. Notification on my phone said, at 1:46, when I checked, that the rain would end by 2 PM. I looked out the window but it wasn’t raining. Grabbed a vest anyway (so glad I did) and headed out.
By the time I’d carried my bike up the stairs and opened the door, it was raining.
I was soaked within three blocks!
Arrived, locked up my bike, squeezed the water out of my hair, and went inside, dripping on the carpet. Receptionist gave me some paperwork, which I had just finished filling out when Doctor Hansen came out to get me. Did I have my glasses with me? No. Did I have my prescription? Yes, I’ve written it down on a post-it. Did I have insurance? Yes, but not optical. What was my insurance? Hennepin Health. They do optical, give me your card.
Apparently I do have insurance? It doesn’t say optical on the card, and I don’t remember seeing it mentioned in the paperwork, but I got the full exam and was told to order a pair of glasses because the insurance covers it!
I can’t remember ever having eye insurance. Thanks, Obama!
The prescription I wrote down made no sense to the doctor and did not match at all what Pearle Minnetonka faxed over. It matches what’s stamped on my contacts boxes, but I have no idea what any of it means. The doctor said something along the lines of my actual prescription being so different from what I’d written down that he’d have had to worry about things like acute diabetes or organ failure or something. He ripped up my post-it and threw it out.
Note to self: next time you see the optometrist, bring your glasses and the print-out of your previous prescription!
For the record, I still don’t enjoy having my eyes dilated, but it wasn’t half as bad as it was the last time when I had to sit in my truck in the parking lot for two hours before I could see well enough to drive! (It occurs to me now that that doctor may have used too large or too strong a dose.) I was able to see well enough to ride my bike home, but everything’s still weird-looking nearly two hours later.
Doctor says my prescription isn’t changing much at all (which surprises me, considering I’ve upped the strength of my readers and have a hard time seeing my journal well enough to actually write in it) and tells me not to drive with mono vision lenses. My new glasses — which are large and chunky and a clear dark blue — will be distance-only since I take them off to read anyway, and should be ready in a couple of weeks.
The doctor was concerned with the idiotic cluster of zits under my left eye. How long has that been there? (Three days.) Advised me to “see the dermatologist if it doesn’t clear up.” (I didn’t go into how I’d messed with the area the day before with a pair of sharp tweezers and some rubbing alcohol, and that that ill-advised behavior, along with the proximity to the delicate under-eye tissue, might be why it looked weirder than your standard garden variety blemishes.)
Excited to get new contacts and new glasses! Even more excited if the insurance really does cover the entire exam plus the new glasses; I’d been expecting to drop $99 for the exam plus the contacts, but only had to pay for the contacts themselves!
I was really chilled and my shirt and vest and messenger bag were cold and damp by the time I left an hour later, and the ride home was therefore cooler than I’d have liked, but some warm socks and a dry long-sleeved tee put me to rights. I might need some sort of rain jacket, if I’m going to keep getting monsooned on when I’m out on the bicycle. I was completely drenched when I got home from the grocery store last week!
Need to drop a couple of packages off at The UPS Store over on Hennepin Avenue, but my eyes still feel so weird I’ll have to do it tomorrow.
In which there’s a screen shot.
This is from an article in The New Yorker about terrorists:
The mania that goes along with falling in love? No, that’s not love. It’s lust, or possession, but it’s not love. Everyone should be taught this, even girls.
…self-actualization and the unashamed consummation of certain lustful desires. No. No, that’s not self-actualization, it is literally the opposite of self-actualization. It’s hedonism. Teach it as a philosophy along with other philosophies. Do not teach girls that life is about satiating every desire that comes along, because that does not create happiness.
What the fuck. If you wonder what the Right is on about sometimes, it’s this shit. It’s this utter glorification of base desires, and the seemingly unaware admission that girls have to be taught to be this way.
While I’m completely cognizant that all organized religion attracts, like the presidency, only people who shouldn’t be involved in it, I can’t help but think society would do well to stop thinking sex and indulgence is healthy and harmless, because it’s neither. ESPECIALLY FOR GIRLS. The birth control revolution may have removed the burden of unwanted pregnancy (it didn’t, not entirely, but we’ll pretend it did), but it cannot protect females against the emotional repercussions of context-free sexual activity.
“Girls are rarely taught to think this way; watching a figure near their own age oblige and accommodate her hungers can be profound.” Seriously. How tone deaf can the modern feminist be? If you have to teach girls to be sexually voracious, maybe they’re not intrinsically sexually voracious, and maybe telling them they are does them a disservice. Maybe. I dunno. Maybe women are brittle and pissed of for no reason at all.
Dear girls, while it is, under certain circs, possible to control men with your sexuality, briefly, you should not do so, as there’s no good reason to, beyond feeding your ego and making enemies. Dear girls, while you have desires, you probably do not have the same desires as men, and this is okay. If you want to say no, say no. You’re not frigid, you’re just female. Dear girls, sex is fine. Have if you want to. Don’t have it if you don’t want to. Your intrinsic worth is there either way; you’re not a hole, and any friendship that hinges upon you putting out is not a friendship. Dear girls, blue balls is not your problem. Dear girls, your value is not in being horny or dressing like you’re a sex worker. Dear girls, the girls who base their psychological worth on their fuckability are likely to encounter a lot of woe; sex and sexuality are a facet of human experience, and not by a long chalk the most important or meaningful…
In which I’m not Bill Gates, but I have a book list, too!
I’ve finally started Cloud Atlas. I bought it months and months ago and it’s just been sitting five screens deep on my Kindle Paperwhite:
It is absolutely goddamned brilliant. No question.
A Calamitous Chinese Killing is still in the pile. Inspector Singh is adorable, as ever. I’m about halfway through:
The Dark Monk is next. I bought it because the book’s design looked cool. The cover is black and gold, and the pages are torn. It’s translated, so hopefully it’ll be a good read, as sometimes translations can be a little flat:
Contact, by Carl Sagan, because I really like the movie and I’ve never read the book:
Still reading my abridged 1970 copy of Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna with the gilded ink on the spine and cover and the ribbon bookmark. Might be reading it again, actually; I really don’t know if I’ve ever finished it, as I frequently set it down for months then just open it at random:
The Outpost, by Mike Resnick. Came part of a sci-fi humble bundle that remains, to date, mostly un-read:
The Shelf Life of Happiness. May not finish this one, depends on how it unwinds:
The Heretics of De’Ath:
The Sheep Look Up, because it was a Nebula finalist:
A Gitanjali re-read. I bought a physical copy because it’s so beautiful and maybe the power will go out or something and I’ll need something that’s not electronic to read:
There’s more unread stuff on my Paperwhite and on paper both, but these are the titles I care about now. My reading habits have become so erratic in the past couple of years that we’ll see how many of these I actually finish, and how many non-listed books I’ll read instead.
What’s on your summer reading list? Anything I’d like?
