I’ve been very stressed of late and I’m a little concerned I might be retreating too much into fantasy. How much is too much? How far is too far? My psych accuses me of staying stressed because I overanalyze every rock of the boat; that not all waves are indicative of a storm.
But. some. are.
This may be nothing, I say, preparing to email my therapist, but I’m currently juggling an increasingly intricate imaginary subplot of dating a celebrity, and I’ve recently undergone the task of changing my handwriting. The new pattern is completely different from the old one. I just decided one day that the former wasn’t as pretty. The numbers have been easier to get a handle on than the letters, though I am convinced I will master them both. But I have no gauge of what’s
normal reasonable, and my healthy response meter is on the fritz.
Am I changing my handwriting because it’s fun, and the visual creature that I am enjoys seeing a flowier font? Or… am I, on some level, fashioning a new identity with which to stalk and kidnap Justin Timberlake?
Sigh. I don’t think flowier is even a word. I’ll email my therapist now.
🎵 The following Pandora stations are comprised of all my dance-like-a-fool-washing-dishes-even-though-such-simple-tasks-will-take-me-twice-as-long music.
Also, my try-not-sing-along-in-the-grocery-store-because-people-are-already-weirded-out-at-my-dancing music.
🎶 American Authors:
🎵 Move by MercyMe:
🎶 Gavin deGraw: (not as peppy, but still fun. However, I’ll allow that my affinity for this station may be due largely in part to the fact that I’m a girl.)
🎵 Also fun for grocery shopping (I really don’t like grocery shopping) –
🎶 Post script for any Pandora newbies: don’t “like” anything. The program searches for qualities in what you like in order to play more stuff like that until you are tangentially listening to Yanni on your Metallica station.
Anyway, happy listening.
🎵 Post post script for people who find they happen to abhor my personal taste in music: get happy listening to something else.
💲 My current state of broke-ness has inspired a new era of grown-up-ness:
🌽 I actively cook. It’s amazing. We’re talkin’ from-scratch-raw-chicken-and-frozen-vegetables-becoming-food. I COOK. And as a result, I now eat green vegetables with lunch and dinner almost every day, and no fried foods. Who’da thunk it: the key to eating right for diabetes was literally losing all my junk food money.
📊📈Furthermore, I have tightened up my budget. Correction: I now USE a budget. I’ve always been one of those kids who learned by doing and got it “in her own time”. It’s like everything I’ve been told about nutrition and personal finance has just clicked in.
💧⚡So, I suppose whenever this dark cloud of financial mess blows over I’ll just be set. 😎
I miss skin.
Don’t get me wrong; I absolutely have skin, it is completely attached to my whole body, and all of that is awesome.
But nobody touches it.
I am currently single and my job does not afford much opportunity for physical contact, certainly nothing with skin. My mother and I kiss each other’s foreheads, and my step mom holds my face in her hands before she kisses me, and I appreciate all of that. I get obligatory impersonal handshakes from church people I don’t know well enough to hug. And even hugs, wonderful rare treat that they are in my life, work hand-to-back/shoulder/side, all of which are usually clothed.
Recently, a friend casually touched her finger to my bare arm and it STAYED with me. That touch became a moment bittersweet and fleeting: drops of water on withering tongue, healing salve to neglected SKIN.
And it isn’t about sex.
Okay, sometimes it is definitely about sex. But mostly it’s about closeness. The heart-fatiguing grind of disingenuous conversation and invisible boundaries – never broken by the rhythmic defibrillation of hand on hand comfort, fingertip exploration, leg wars and foot victories, security arm replacing security blanket, and soft-snore lullabies – if left unchecked, will surely be the death of me.
My heart will work too hard at pretending it is all. only. skin.
The head is not complete, but then it never is. At least I am built up to my mouth now. A body housing a voiceless soul is a soda can in the freezer.