Why is it that the thing you should be doing first is always the last thing that you want to do? I’ve been feeling down, tired, blasé….just writing this line of words is making me want to crawl back into bed.

Maybe it’s the culmination of SAD. The fact that I’ve started to read the works of  Nietzsche isn’t helping. The one thing that I know will help my malaise is to strap on the old trainers and putt around the block. But it’s dark and cold and I’m feeling fat and bloated and my shoes look like they weigh 1,000 pounds. I DON’T WANT TO DO IT.

But I must. 

I’ve made a goal for February. Not only to continue with being dry, but to TRY everyday to get outside. Even if that is for a walk around the block. I am afraid of being blitz attacked by a Ted Bundy copy cat, hit by a car, or harassed by a gang of teenagers or maybe event bit by a roaming dog. Heck, I could make a misstep and seriously injure myself in the process. All of these thoughts and my general laziness make for a super team that keeps me and my fanny pack full of mace comfy on the couch watching other people go outside.

So ladies and gents here is another goal while I’m on a sticking to things roll. Exercise, run, walk even…as often as I can. The alternative is couch lock and eating popcorn and paydays until life imitates art and I become one of those chubby gals on 90 DAY FIANCÉ.

I’m a week away from completing my first Dry January. And it has been insightful. I’ve learned a few things about myself along the way and a few things that were extremely helpful should I choose to continue this “winning” streak or do a Sober Spring – Observant October, Woke Winter, Judge-Free June, whathaves you. I won’t keep this long (as I’m not done yet) so I’ll narrow it down to 5:

1. I really am an anxious and up-tight person. I will literally get my panties in a wad over anything. And I mean any-he-thang. Paper straw wrapper in the driveway… the linoleum in the kitchen, the amazing amount of mismatched socks in my house. These are all symptoms of my epic failure at LIFE. I did not realize how much I needed to chill until I took my method of chill away.
2. I like the taste of beer. This is the one time I’m envious of my wine and cosmo loving counter parts. When they do Dry January they post photos of fancy mock-tails with ginger beer and sours, etc. I don’t like the sweet stuff and it doesn’t replicate the blue collar satisfaction of that psssst from popping the cap off a cold one. NA beers have the bottle down and that’s basically it. There is this phantom aftertaste that haunts almost every NA beer I’ve tried that I’ve never wanted to ever encounter. I think it’s the culmination of torturing a brew to death and what you are left with is the failure of producing a natural tasting hop beverage. How do you get just the hops without losing the hope? 
3. I have so many feelings. I didn’t realize how anesthetized I have been and for how long. I have been holding on to some crazy emotions from sadness, to pride, to elation, paralyzing fear, hope, and then back to sadness again. I’m not sure how I feel about my feelings. I’m not sure I love this new found depth of emotion. I’m uncomfortable with it. It’s felt like I’ve been wearing sweatpants and then switched to spanxs all of the sudden and I. Can’t. Breath.
4. I’m so much more productive. Not to brag, but somehow I can sleep in, watch a weeks worth of 90 day fi·an·cé and still have time to do the dishes and make my bed. I manage to avoid the things I really don’t want to do (like vacuuming, scrubbing the toilets, etc.) but in theory I have time to do them. It’s like I’ve gained an extra three hours in a day to do stuff I hate!
5. OMG beer makes you bloated? No Sh*t Sherlock. Coasting out of the last part of the winter break, the Christmas Lagers, fudge and eggnog, had added a sleek 5 lbs to my already svelte figure. I’m not saying I’ve turned into Jane Fonda, but with little effort I dropped the 5 lbs back to baseline and can now fit into my original fat pants. Yay me!

So there is your recap. Thus far – it’s been a pretty cool experience and I haven’t really missed the shame-overs, hangovers, and extra caloric bloat. I would say that I’m experiencing more clarity – caveat is I’m 40+ and always in a mental fog (so hard to gauge baseline there).

My intention is to keep going. I want to see if I can make it 90 days and maybe get my K1 visa for my (mostly) sober self to live here permanently.

I recently had the chance to watch “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood” with Tom Hanks playing Mister Rogers. Not ashamed to say I cried more than once, it’s well written and a great portrayal of a really great man. The end scene got me where he starts to play his piano in the dark. I actually read the article later that the movie was based on and it was the way he ended filming for the day – quite the metaphor for ending the movie. Nicely done movie-producer person. In the middle of playing he slams the piano in a reference to what you can do when you are really mad sometimes.

Here is me banging my piano today.  Even though I don’t really have time to.

This isn’t a consecutive blog post, if that is what you are wondering. I bet that’s what you were wondering… I’m sure that’s what you were wondering. I was wondering it myself. No it’s more like a week progression that took over a month to come around to. Mainly I’m just trying to start all over again with this exercise of writing everyday. Crying out into the desert and whatnot. Set an intention. Today… my intention is to not have an opinion. To keep my head down and to my work. To find a time to take a walk. To drink more water.

That is it.

Thursday in the books.

Drink more water.

I don’t like to reveal too much about me in the off chance that the one visiter I get a year would care enough to dox me based off of my vulnerability on this blog. I know, I know… mark those ones private and people won’t dox you! Also you have to be doing something really bad like dressing like Hizzler for Halloween, refusing to bake a gunder neutral birthday cake, or flying a coneffertiti flag. Don’t worry guys, I don’t dress up for Halloween, I don’t bake, and I don’t decorate – so simmer down.

The past couple of weeks have been hard. I’ve been trying to find a house in this ever shrinking homing situation. Buying is off the table as everything is too high on the “affordability” index. I mean people used to live in caves that were free, times have changed. It’s left me exasperated, and deflated. Rentals are going so fast that yesterday I caught myself flying across town like speed racer to be first in line with my application. Pray for me.

I don’t do well when everything is packed up and in boxes and I have no where to go. I am in the land of wishing things were different. Wishing I had resolved all of this shit years ago. But here we are… on our way to another abode where the carpet is beige and the linoleum is cheap.

Could this time be different though? What would a positive intention be. How could you turn this “X-Factor” into some sort of erotic energy. New chapters are exciting and life is an adventure.

It’s time to stop resisting and just set sail.

Intention today: Sail.

You are a fraud failure.

Favorite quote of all time from Rubin and Ed.

Basically that’s what I’m facing now. So as I stand here pantless, less than 3 minutes to get pants on, get the kid up and dressed and out the door to whatever punishment we all can expect from a Tuesday, I just want to cry.

My son is failing almost every class he’s taking. And I feel like I should just call the Nanny National Guard to come and rescue him. This is all my fault and I have no idea how to fix it. You can google a million times over how this might be normal or that you just need to be a little more disciplined, less opened and free-range approach. Free-range and middle schoolers don’t seem to go hand-in-hand. So what do I do now?

A downward spiral seems unproductive, but that’s where my mind goes. I legit would rather run down to the PT’s Pub and put a few songs in the jukebox and sink in some suds than confront my boy about getting his work turned in. It’s such a bummer.

Intent for today. Don’t panic. Don’t spiral.

Life is a pile on. It’s not ever going to just be one thing. It’ll be a complex web of a multitude of things that you might not ever be able to fix. Turning 40 and realizing you are on the slippery slide of the downhill part of life. Managing a 12-year old on the cusp of teen-ville and all the potholes and angsts that come with that. Being slowly squeezed to death at work by an ever growing mob. There are times when you know that you are in the wrong, that you’ve wronged, and that is self-awareness. And there are times when you realize that you’ve found yourself in an enclave full of people that are actively and bitterly wronging and have no idea that they aren’t justified in their deeds. And that’s a little scary, but I guess the scariest party is figuring out that you have the power to leave.

The workshop talked about a sober dating plan. Is there a sober life plan? Is there a way to deal with the stresses of living in an American society that doesn’t involve the invention of craft beer and benzodiazepines. What kind of place have we made where the animals are constantly stressed by the experiment so much so that they are fleeing the ship either by suicide or ex-pating out. I could consider busting my hump here or flee to South America with my 401K. Sounds better than death.

Sorry, this is such a vague and weird entry. I’m paranoid. I’m tired. I’m bloated. It’s Monday and I’m feeling impatient. I want a sign of hope that the future will be bright and I’ll be able to slay my dragons.

Intention.

Patience. Lean into the discomfort, lean in hard. Learn. Love. Even when it’s not going to be reciprocated.

“You can’t spend your whole life holding the door open for people and then being angry they didn’t thank you. Nobody asked you to hold the f*cking door.”

— Lisa Caputo (Orange is the New Black)

This is a first. First time I’ve had this dream. I dreamed last night that somehow my tongue was cut and mangled so badly that I was extracting and pulling big pieces of it out of my mouth. WTF does that mean? 

Same dream included a clogged toilet that I kept forgetting to take care of that was just overflowing over and over. The floor was a disgusting wet mess of toilet paper and other things. You get the point.

Something is going on in my subconscious. I don’t have much time today. Will hop in shower and mull this one over. What does it mean? 

Sisyphus – get up and move that boulder. Go take care of the “clogged” toilet and speak your words although your tongue is shredded to ribbons. 

How visceral my mind can be. How strange.

Intent for today: I will do one thing this afternoon that I am dreading. I will pay attention to my bills and my social interactions. I will try to peacock even though I don’t feel like it.

I just sent an email that sounded like a Trump Tweet. It made me realize how effective it was to use a powerful negative with an exclamation point. SAD!

We’ve ended on a negative note the last couple of posts. I am going to try to change that intent and pull the writing juiced back up by the boot straps. I need this. Also I need to explore the inner dialog no matter how vile it has been.

Repulsive! – That’s a strong word to use against yourself. 

But I did. And I do. I used it against myself yesterday. I told my therapist that I have a hard time relaxing with “menfolk” without these feelings and thoughts stirring. I feel that I am being examined and found wanting. There are so many images of ideal beauty out there now and I feel so “less than”.

But let’s focus on changing that from “repulsive!” into “charming!”, “funny!”, “sexy!” – you can still be sexy with a few extra pounds.

SEXY!

(Trump – you can learn a lesson, let’s start ending with a positive and then the exclamation point). Maybe not sexy though, maybe not in this climate. 

CHARMING!

Okay, that could also be seen as sarcastic/negative. 

Intent for today: Laugh more. Stop taking everyone (and everything) so damn serious. We are in a world of imperfect people with flawed ideas about themselves and everyone else. It’s not my job to judge or accept judgement of any of these things.

Take the day off.

AWESOME!

She gestures to me – mimicking a pen and paper… You need to write this down.

I owe her $150. She hasn’t quite figured out Venmo and the money just sits there, but the advice is good. I’m going to have to pay up for it. It’s good shit.

It’s worth every penny that I haven’t paid yet.

He is your practice. My practice of saying what I need to say.

But this is the hard part. What I want to say is that I want you to not want me.  I want you to be disgusted by my drooping 40 year old breasts. The cellulite on my ass. My mother’s apron (no matter how much weight I lose it never goes away). I want you to leave me alone and validate the feeling that I don’t deserve your attention or the attention and love of any man.

There are literally a million or more women in the world that have tighter asses than mine. Younger, hotter… Asian. Things I can never be.

Because do you know what would be worse? You wanting to be with me. That would be truly terrifying. Things working out. Would be truly terrifying. You or anyone else seeing me. Devastating.

Me having to be honest with you? Worse than a thousand episodes of cheating with a mega hot babe that has a better job, thicker hair, bigger boobs and a decade less of traction on her.

So much worse. 

That I would have to admit to you and anyone else that has ever known me in that way, that my need for love was larger than a pre-historic sea. Think Great Basin large. No one, and I mean no one… will be able to satisfy me. The cold chill that I know I will be the only one that will be able to comfort me in the middle of the empty night is the frigid millstone that I will always have around my neck. I will forever be my own worst enemy. I will forever feel alone.

As it stands now.

Secretly… I want to tell you how much I want you. All of you. How much I need you. All of you. How I wish I were the only one. How I would cry an endless amount of tears if that ever happened.

And I say “you” but I really mean every “you” that has crossed my path. “You” are all the same, and all different. Even the “you” that never made it past the bad cologne and theater date. “You” will be “you” until “you” have a name and a place.

Or maybe not.

This is only practice.