The Gurly Life

Accomodatingwha--?

In the last few months I have been dating a tiny bit more than I normally do. Predictably I learned a few things. And no, not that I'm an introverted misanthrope, that's not news to anyone, least of all me. You might remember my recent 5:30 a.m. ephiphany, wherein I realized that I fantasize about relationships going wrong -- you'll be relieved to know that I've been consciously steering away from such nonsense.

Back to the point: in my dating adventures I have become aware that I'm not a very accomodating person. As Deirdre observed when I informed her of my self-revelation, "No, it's not your strong suit." Hahahaha! Damn right it's not. I do make an effort, and I manage it with friends to some degree, though there is definitely room for improvement.

Anyway. Accomodating. Right. I have been dating a man who is accomodating but who is not in any way a doormat. Which is what made me realize how unaccomodating I am, and how I have a hard time hitting a comfortable middle ground. And by comfortable I mean comfortable for him, too. I'm working on it now.

The other thing that I'm realizing is that I like moving forward at an absolutely glacial pace, although in this context "moving forward" is a figure of speech. Think of the slowest sloth in the world moving through molasses in winter, slow that down a bit, and that's what I'm comfortable with. I think it's because I'm terrified by the idea of ending up with the wrong guy (again!) and wasting more years of my life until I finally realize I don't want to be with that person. So my early response to someone who likes me and wants to see me often is revulsion. I see everything that is wrong with them, whether it's real or not. But when I move slowly, I have enough time to calm down and evaluate the person more accurately. Well, really, I'm evaluating my reactions for accuracy. I think the slow pace gives me the space I need to strike a good balance being a hardass and giving away the farm: in other words, appropriately accomodating.

5:30 a.m. epiphanies

If I wrote down all the brilliant ideas and epiphanies that I have while I'm driving or that wake me up at 5:30 in the morning, you would know that I am, in fact, a genius. Where I fall down is that even after decades of this happening, I am always convinced that I don't need to write it down because ohmygod this is so brilliant no one could ever forget. I always forget.

Every now and again, however, I do remember. This is one of those times. Unfortunately, it is not a billion dollar idea, it's an epiphany.

When the alarm goes off in the morning, I usually spend 10 minutes or so in a state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness before finally waking up. I often dreamfantasize during those 10 minutes. Don't get excited, they're not sexual fantasies. It's things like what I would do with the money if I won a large lotto jackpot, or what I would do if I had 6 months off work, and no money worries. Sometimes I daydream about being in a relationship, and the other day I realized something hideous: my daydreams about relationships never work out. I kid you not. Inevitably, my daydream ends up that the guy is not interested in someone like me, or he doesn't want to be in an exclusive relationship (or worse, he chooses someone else to be exclusive with), or the relationship feels amazing and I think finally I have found the right guy, and then it turns out it's totally one-sided. And so on.

Point is, that my own fantasies, which really can go anywhere I want, always end up with me having to steel myself for disappointment. Every. Single. Time. I'm semi-conscious when I have these daydreams, so I could fantasize about being the Queen of Mars and my paramour is the King of Venus, and who would be there to tell me I'm wrong? No one. Yet, I spend my fantasy time being disappointed and hurt over and over again.

Huh.

I also realized that, to a greater or lesser extent, I've been doing this for as long as I can remember. In some cases, it's a way of dealing with stress and emotional upset. But the problem is that it also perpetuates my hardest-to-shake belief, which is that at best I'm a mediocre catch. [This is the point where you resist the urge to tell me how great I am, because (a) what you say makes no difference, unfortunately, and (b) more importantly, that's not the point of this post.]

That, by the way, is my default. It's my glitch. The place I go where I'm under stress, tired, upset - that I have done something wrong. Here's an interesting quote from Dr. Sylvia Boorstein, from her March interview with Krista Tippett on On Being (this episode found here):

Actually, the Buddha said we have one of five genetic fallback glitches when we're challenged. He said some people fret, some people get angry, some people lose heart and all their energy goes and they don't know what to do with themselves, some people think, "Uh-oh, it's me. I didn't do things right. It's always my fault. I messed things up." And some people need to be sensually soothed. They think, "Where's a donut shop? Where's the pizza?" People have different tendencies. It was very, very helpful for me as an adult to learn that because it completely comes without a judgment. I don't have to say I am a chronic fretter. I could say, you know, when I'm challenged, fretting arises in my mind and it's not a moral flaw. And it's very good for people who have a short fuse to be able to think, "You know, I have this unusual neurological glitch."

For me it's a vicious cycle. My default is "it's me, it's my fault, there's something wrong with me." That's where I go when I'm stressed or tired, which, as a normal human being living and working in the 21st century, is pretty much all the time. I try to work this out before I get up in the morning in my daydreams, sometimes, and those don't go well because that's the glitch, and they perpetuate the glitch further. What's worse, they perpetuate crappy beliefs I have about myself.

So, I will stop having crappy daydreams. I don't think I'll be waking up any time soon thinking how fabulous I am, but at least I won't be deepening that ugly groove. Every little bit counts.

 

Finally, a new year's resolution I'm not likely to stick to!

Have you ever made a new year's resolution that you didn't stick to? Perhaps I should rephrase that: have you ever made a new year's resolution that you still remembered when the hangover passed? Yeah, me neither. And I don't even drink.

Unfulfilled new year's resolutions inevitably lead to either shame or cynicism. Shame because you can't stick to them and what kind of person are you that you can't even stay on a diet for longer than 48 hours. Or cynisim, because why bother with new year's resolutions when you're just not strong enough to stick to a diet for longer than 48 hours.

Let's face it: losing weight and getting in shape is really the only new year's resolution that we, doughy first-world mollycoddles ever make. For example: this year, I'm going to lose weight and get in shape. Or: this year, I'm going to meet the love of my life, because I will be in shape and thin by February. Or: this year I will get promoted and I will be a fit, thin boss. Or: this year I will travel around the world, and as a result I will be fit and thin. Or: this year I will lose a bunch of weight so I can go to Paris for a week and eat my own weight in food and still fit in an airplane seat. Or: this year I will travel to India to take care of the orphans and while there I will get dysentery, which will suck but on the plus side I will be super thin. Anyway, you get the gist.

If you're a big fat liar, like me, you'll say something like, oh I just want to be healthy and feel good, when what you really mean is I would like to lose a little weight and look hot, but if I fail, I don't want to be held accountable because I'm healthy, and that was my goal, that's why I said it that way.

Inevitably, we are broadsided by a chocolate cake, and that's that.

My solution: make resolutions that I am not likely to follow through on. I know, this might at first glance appear to be a cynical approach to resolutions, but bear with me. This is a win-win kind of deal. No, it's a win-win-win kind of deal. Here's my resolution:

I'm going to get in better shape than I already am so that I can look good in a bikini in April, when I go to Maui with Willow and Adam. This is also a good idea because I need to replace some of the muscle I have lost since I stopped running.

(You heard me: we're going to Hawaii. Jealous much? Don't get sidetracked.)

The likelihood of this happening is almost zero. I hate the gym, this is well known. Weight training tends to give me super chunky thighs, with no apparent decrease in cellulitic fat. So just as soon as I begin to notice an uptick in thigh meatiness, I will give up the weight training and decide to focus on cardio. Which I hate even more. I cannot make peace with being on a machine that simulates movement but that is indoors and where I can cover a distance of virtual miles without ever moving. It's nightmarish to me. So, that will fall by the wayside, also.

Where is the win-win-win, you ask? Well, here it is. If I fail, I win, because I made a resolution that I don't really intend to fulfill. If by some miracle (i.e., just to be contrary) I manage to stick with it, I win too because I will have built muscle, maybe lost some fat, and now look better in a bikini -- that's all kinds of win right there. And either way, I win because I feel zero pressure to actually stick with it, which actually makes it more likely that I will.

I should be a motivational speaker.

It's the stupid things

On Saturday, my evening plans fell through so my mom and I decided to have dinner at a local  restaurant. The food is good, and the staff are friendly and welcoming. They do everything they can to compete with the other, similar restaurant down the street. Bless their hearts.

Saturday evening was no exception. They had a violin/erhu/piano player in a full-on tux with tails. His hair was slick, and he played with the passion of a concert violinist. The only problem was that he really was not good at all. When we walked in he was playing some Christmas song on the violin, and he was off-key and flat, to boot. At first I thought I was having a stroke and that the auditory center of my brain had melted, but then I realized my mom was hearing the same thing. Let the giggling begin!

The entertainment moved on to the piano, where he launched into a piece by Mozart, messed it up a few times, stopped and started again, and then trailed into nothing. Ditto with Claire de Lune. After that, it was back to the erhu, which sounded ok to us - we assume he can play that one, and he's dabbling in the other instruments. Then again to his forte, the violin. He played several famous pieces, which we were kind of able to recognize - he would begin by keeping it simple, and do ok (not great, just ok), then his confidence would apparently outswell his skills, and he would take it to the next level, where it all went to shit.

While I realize this makes us horrible people, I have to admit we had the best time and giggled helplessly most of the evening, and walked out with big smiles on our faces. Naturally, we clapped at the end of each number. In fact, I enjoyed the bad playing more than I enjoy good playing: I like to chat with my company during dinner and have fun, not be distracted by good music and then feel obligated to pay attention. This was much, much better. We had no trouble telling the management that we enjoyed the evening's entertainment.

When I assume, I make an ass out of ... well, mostly me

On Wednesday a dear friend went into labor. (Between then and the writing of this post, the baby was born -- it only took 9 hours -- and everyone is just dandy. I add this so you don't wonder what happened and worry and want to know blah blah blah.)

The friend who was in labor sent me a quick email to tell me that she and her husband were on the way to the hospital. I in turn texted a few other friends to let them know. Shortly thereafter, one of the friends texted me back: "I don't care." Mmmh. I was all, you know that seems odd, maybe she's kidding. So I texted her back: "Are you j/k or serious? Can't tell tone." She reponded: "I seriously don't give a shit." I said: "Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't know you had a falling out. What happened? I won't send you anymore updates tho." No response.

Wow. So I thought, ok, something happened that I don't know about, and it must be really really bad, but this does not at all seem like the person I know, she would never do such a thing. I emailed a mutual friend, who called me. We were at a loss how to explain it. We both agreed, this is not like her at all. Maybe she thought she was texting someone else and thinking this was about something else. We figured at least one of us should delicately broach the subject with her, so that it if was a misunderstanding we wouldn't be left thinking she was so heartless but that if she really was this angry maybe we could help.

I then emailed another friend and asked if she had any ideas. She said she thought maybe I had the wrong number because it showed up wrong when she saw the original text. Which explains why it didn't sound like my friend at all - it WASN'T my friend. Duh!!!!

I knew the whole time that there was something wrong, that this could not be my friend, how could this possibly be? But the last thing I thought, which was the most obvious, was that it actually was not my friend. I just assumed I had the right number.

Of course, now I wonder who in fact texted me back and why they were so callous. All kinds of possibilities present themselves, but I can only fix one problem at a time.

This is how pathetic I am

A few months ago, I was introduced to an HBO series, True Blood. For those of you who follow it, you know how addictive it is -- once you start, there's no turning back. I watched the first and second seasons on DVD as fast as I could, and was dismayed when season 2 ran out. Season 3 was already running on HBO, but not out on DVD yet.

Last Sunday, season 4 began, and season 3 came out on DVD. So I finally decided, that's it, I can't take it anymore. I subscribed to HBO (10 channels, plus on demand, so not a bad deal) and have started to record the new episodes, which will wait for me to be done with season 3 on DVD.

But that's not truly pathetic. What's truly pathetic is that I also upgraded my Netflix membership so that I can have 3 DVD's out at the same time - the long weekend is coming up, and I anticipate that I will want to watch more than 1 disc, right? Once I get done with season 3, I will go back to my 1 disc at a time membership. Once I upgrade to a new TV, I look forward to Netflix on demand, too. And no, I do not like to watch stuff on my laptop.

I put a lot of thought into this.

Just let the experts handle it, ma'am

Yesterday I went on a bike ride, the first of the season. 8 miles, which is respectable. The first bike ride of the season is always interesting because my wrist injury usually flares up (not much this time though, just a little irritation around the thumb, which may be from typing on my phone one-handed, I'm stopping that right now) and my ass gets totally bruised from sitting on that seat. It's supposedly a comfortable seat, but after a couple of hours it just feels like -- well, lets just say my butt hurts much more than it should considering the size of my cheeks.

What made it worse is that the front brake was dragging on the wheel. Yeah. I had a tough time keeping up with Willow, and I thought, damn I'm totally out of shape here, I'm dyin'! I didn't think it had made such a difference, but trust me, it did.

Nevertheless, I thought, out of shape or not, riding the whole summer with the front brake dragging on the wheel is some kind of biking purgatory, and in light of the fact that I don't believe in the whole heaven/hell paradigm I figured I should do something about it.

I researched bike shops near my office, I asked for recommendations from my co-workers, and I lugged my bike to work with me. I thought that if I left it on Monday hopefully they could repair by the long weekend so I can ride. I wondered if the bike had fallen over in the bike room and the front brake got bent and now needed to be replaced, how much it would cost, how long it would take, would it be hundreds of dollars? No, that can't be, the bike is worth a few hundred dollars, but the brakes are probably not racing bike super duper high performance brakes. They're the kind of brakes that you need when you see a kid about to cross the bike path while you mosey and you stop, just in case.

Nevertheless, I thought, if they're superswamped with work I might need to pay a premium to get my bike back before the long weekend, I imagine that everyone is getting their bikes tuned up before the long weekend. Right?

Kirke accompanied me on this endeavor. I needed moral support.

We got to the store, after making what may have been an illegal u-turn, I don't know, and marched the bike right up to the service area. I had called earlier, by the way, to make sure I could drop the bike off after lunch. I mean, do I need an appointment for bicycle service? Who the hell knows??

As luck would have it, the store was kinda slow. It also turns out that the nice man I had spoken to on the phone earlier, who was not as stoned as he had sounded, and who was clearly puzzled by my weird question if I could bring my bike in later, was the same nice man who helped me.

As I fretted around him and made awkward twittery comments, he comfortably hoisted up my bike and fiddled with the wheel and the brake. I think I told him my theory about how maybe the bike had fallen over and maybe the brake was broken and I just had no idea what might have happened, and while I babbled on he took out a tiny screwdriver, turned a tiny screw on the front wheel brake, and fixed the problem.

Eh hem.

He didn't even charge me.

At long last, another breakthrough

I know you've all been wondering: where have those posts gone, the ones where I have some epiphany about myself, and then write about it like I have no sense of decency?

After years of Landmark Education and PAX Programs and various other personal growth stuff, I think I sorted through most of the shittiest stuff. I don't mean to suggest I couldn't use some improvements, the remodeling never really ends, but the focus has shifted from lifting barriers to building skills that I either don't have, or want to improve.

Naturally, as I build skills, I come across a few barriers. After all, if I didn't have the barriers, I'd already have the skills, right?

So here's a really juicy one. I don't like to admit this one because it makes me look very bad, and I don't like to look very bad - just bad enough to be interesting. This has been brewing for a few weeks, and it's probably rambly.

As you know, I have specifically been doing a lot of work in the relationships realm. My goal is to (one day while I'm still young enough to chew my own food) be in a relationship that is empowering and fulfilling. Much of the work I've done in the last few years has been to that goal. In the recent past, my focus has shifted away from my own individual stuff to partnership. I've been looking at what partnership skills do I need, would I like to have, and so on, especially since partnership skills translate really well in every area of life. I figured even if I have no romantic partnership, I still have friends, family, work, neighbors, and so on. Can't hurt, right?

Of course, though, the focus is relationships.

Imagine if you will the setting: it is early evening in Los Feliz, I am going for a brisk walk in the neighborhood, enjoying nature and listening to music on my iPod. I'm feelin' pretty special, with all my partnership skills, and I'm all, check me out I'm totally fabulous, that's me, yup, yup (nevermind that I'm still single, don't use facts to confuse the issues, please, you know how I hate that).

I'm bouncing along thinking about how great I am (this is always a red flag) and how superior I am to all those other women, poor dears, who are actually in relationships that work, and it suddenly hits me, like a turd between the eyes: that I'm often calibrating who I am in order to catch the right guy (not just any guy, mind you, the right one, whatever the heck that means). I suddenly noticed how I watch myself when I interact with men to see if I'm doing it right. And really, what it comes down to is that I haven't been doing all this personal growth stuff to be a better person, but to manipulate the right guy, when I find him, into being with me, because I'm so awesome. Urgh.

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing inherently sleazy about proactively looking for a partner -- it's just that there was something, I don't know, weaselly about how I've been doing it. It's hard to explain, though as you read this you might be thinking, yeah I see it too, but the place I was standing to set my intention was a crappy place. It was like putting ice cream on poo and trying to sell it like a delicious banana split. No, that's not poo, it's chocolate. NOT delicious.

So I walked along a bit more, and thought to myself, what if I do all that I'm doing for no reason at all, just because that's who I am and being a good person is important to me? What a fucking idea!

But that's not all. What also became evident is why I have in the past (thankfully not anymore) been a magnet for married guys. It's a mechanism that I had sort of identified, it had to do with how I engage with men (obviously!), but I hadn't seen the mechanism's agenda. And while I was on my walk, I saw it, and recoiled at the ugliness of it all. Thankfully, it was night, no one could see the grimace on my face, or the gagging. What causes that shift in who I'm being that attracts married men is a voice in my head that says that I want that man to risk something for me, because that means I'm worth something.

What. The fuck. Is that?????

Until I saw that, the best I could is notice when a married guy would start being interested, and bring down the shutters. Not a very empowering defense mechanism, by the way, I don't recommend it. Now I can see it before it even begins. I can hear the voice in my head like I'm some schizo patient off her meds, and I can feel my body shift and my face take on a different expression, it's really weird and creepy. Sooo gross.

All this I saw several weeks before I even left for vacation. I think it was some time in March or April. The first thing that happened was that the emotional charge in the realm of relationships fell away. All of a sudden, I wasn't emotionally invested in getting a relationship. For several weeks, I just didn't care at all about this part of my life. At. All. I forgot to get online to check my profile for weeks at a time, and when I did remember and found no messages from anyone, I'd think, meh, I have to work on my profile anyway, whatever.

Since then I have been noticing immediately when "the married man bomb" activates and have been easily able to disarm it. Over time it is activating less and less and has almost disappeared.

So ... yikes, right?

Now that I've settled, and the married guy issue is disappearing, I'm back doing my work on partnership, and still looking for an awesome guy, sans frustration and disappointment. Thus far, no flopping between white-knuckling it and giving up in resignation.

Now I can get back to the business of playing with my camera, preparing my Guide to Egypt: A Pictorial Representation, and standing on my head for 5 minutes at a time.

Life is good.

How zombies reanimated a conversation

On Monday, I had a deep tissue massage.

Nevermind why I was getting a massage IN THE MIDDLE OF THE WORK DAY -- I went to work early and stayed late to get all my stuff done, so you needn't be concerned that urgent work is languishing.

Back to my point. The massage. I always like to talk to massage therapists, physical therapists, what have you. Well, ok, I like to talk to anyone and everyone. So I said a few platitudes about massage and how it helps me and this or that. I could tell though, the therapist was completely disengaged from the conversation, so I just shut up. I could hear the voice in her head going, "Oh my god if I hear one more person tell me about how they have good/bad circulation, I will smack myself on the head with a plastic lotion bottle until I pass out or I'm dead, either is fine."

About 5 minutes later, I had the weirdest impulse. This popped out of my mouth: "So, I'm reading a zombie book. It's called World War Z. Have you heard of it?" [Thanks to Willow for the recommendation.]

And it was as if the floodgates had opened. Turns out, her husband is a zombie freak, knows all about zombies, has seen all the movies, has read most of the books, the ones he hasn't read are on his book list, and he is very clear on what to do in case of a zombie invasion. The therapist, on the other hand, likes vampires and fantasy, and she has a Kindle with about 3000 books on it. She reads 1-2 books a day -- A DAY!

We spent the rest of the massage talking about zombies, vampires, and books, and by the time I left, I had learned that my Kindle has an audio book feature, and that if you want to kill a zombie I need to go for the brain stem, which apparently control motor reflexes, not just the cerebral cortex. I feel much better prepared in the event of a zombie invasion.

I, border collie

It occurred to me this morning that I might have been a Border collie in a past life. Which, incidentally, would partially explain why I love Border collies so much and think they're absolutely gorgeous and super brilliant. Eh hem.

How this Border collie tendency manifests in my life is mostly at work. I have these tendencies in all areas of my life, but I tend to use up all my herding energy at work and by the time I'm done I just don't have it in me to herd anyone else. But give me a couple of days off, and I'll be herding you, your friends, your pets, and your children.

A lot of what I do all day, other than draft papers, is to follow up with people and bug them about what I need. I bug them nicely, of course, but I never leave them alone until it's all gathered, or they're all gathered and everyone has what they need. I bark at everyone, but mostly to make sure no one strays from the flock, gets eaten by a wolf, or dies of fright while they're off all alone in the big, bad world. It is my responsibility to make sure you don't go off the reservation.

Naturally, I would much rather think of myself as a cat. They're sexy, sensual, irresistible. Alas, it is not to be. On the plus side, I'll make sure your children don't run out into the streets or wander off out of sight. And my friend Farrah says "Smart, loyal, sassy, focused -- yep, sounds about right." I could do worse, right?