Three years ago, I divulged that I’m a major weenie when it comes to medical procedures.
My public inner monologue about sperm donation started two years ago. If you attended the Monti GrandSLAM last month, you got an update. Stay tuned for more on that topic.
A year ago, I went on a date with “Mike“. It was terrible. (I feel like I should make a “major weenie” joke here… something about what could’ve salvaged the date, but… nope. I got nothin.)
It’s not going much better now. The prospects on Match are 0% higher quality than on OKCupid (“PS NO LIBERALS” read a recent profile), and the algorithm—that I’m paying actual US dollars for—notified me that it had matched me with jls1969 because we had the same birth month.
The same. Birth. Month.
They tried to make it sound better by saying he didn’t smoke either. OH GOOD GOLLY GOSH, a Virgo or maybe a Libra who is also a non-smoker?! Thank you, match.com—it’s everything I ever dreamed! When I was a tiny girl, I used to say, “One day I want to marry a non-smoker who is a Virgo. Or maybe a Libra.”
I mustn’t lose faith. There’s always this guy:
What do I think about him, match.com?
I think him’s a her.
Looks like she thinks him’s a her too.
Of course, the pic looks like a stock photo plucked from a Google Image search for “straight white teeth”, and the profile is almost too perfectly generic. My guess is it’s a new angle on the old Nigerian bank scam.
But! Him/her is not a smoker!
There’s that!!
!!!!
I can’t for the life of me understand why people think I’m jaded.
I’m genetically a whole lot like my mama. Growing up, everyone always said, “You look just like her!” (which was nice because she’s a good-lookin’ lady). I’d pick up the phone, and they’d start asking about Lamaze classes or some Boone UU function, assuming they had my mother’s ear on the other end of the line. Or they’d hear my laugh from another room and come in looking for her. Three years ago, I realized the one thing I didn’t inherit from my mom was her fire hoses.
And I felt all right, you know. They’re Calvin Klein (thus reasonable quality, I guess? I don’t know these things) and made of stretchy fabric, so they’re comfortable. And the way they felt, the way they fit, I kind of found myself strutting around like Sandy at the end of Grease, when she’s got all that skin-tight business on.
But looking in the mirror/at the picture…
my torso sits atop twin ice cream cones.
I just don’t dig the shape—so very narrow at the ankles, and so very expansive at the child-birthers. It looks like, if I put my feet together, everything would get wicked precarious wicked fast. The tiniest tectonic movement, and I’d be supine. (Especially in my super-cute, red leather wedge sandals [that, like every other pair of heels, make my feet lose all feeling for 2-5 days].)
This fayshun stuff is hard. (My first-world problems are so hard.)
But the important thing is I’m making progress, right?
A couple years ago, I shared with you my secret magic antiperspirant, which I admitted was probably giving me Alzheimer’s. Well, I re-upped a few months ago, and it smelled stronger. I wondered if they changed the formula.
I think so. There seems to be another side effect now.
Klima: our deodorant is so strong, it’ll eat your bathrobe.
And white Ts. And one hoodie.
I looked online and couldn’t find any reviews about Klima shredding the armpits of your clothes. All the same, maaaaaaybe gonna lay off for awhile.
Did you hear the one about the squirrel? (Sometimes when I post at night, people don’t see the link in their Facebook feed, and they don’t read it, but I’m pathologically incapable of delaying gratification, so.)
Listen, last night was rough. I woke up at 2:00, fretted for a couple hours, read a chapter of my book, and dozed off 40 minutes before my alarm went off. I put on clean underpants and made it through the day without pitching any sixth graders out a window. I even took 33 of them out to the sunny courtyard during lunch because they had done their work completely and on time.
But now work is over, and we have a problem on our hands. You know and I know that I’m headed for a 3-hour nap, and you know and I know that my 3-hour naps are good for exactly no one. I always wake up feeling like I’m crawling out of the womb (so bright! so loud! so cold!). And then when bedtime hits, I’ve just slept three hours!—there’s no sleeping! No sleeping. Which means two nights of no sleep, which means children definitely get pitched out the window tomorrow. And my classroom’s on the second floor.
So we’re all gonna need to work together to prevent this catastrophe.
Redford and Violet are already pawing at my arms. That’s good. I’ll take them out for a walk, and it’s unlikely I’ll fall asleep during it.
My sister invited me to dinner at 6:00. That’s also good. I’ll have to leave at 5:40, so between dinner and the walk, the 3-hour-nap window is already closed to maybe an hour and twenty.
But listen, everybody’s got to pull his weight. I feel like one of you can probably make a Starbucks run. Others might need to come over for 10-minute shifts and slap me about the face and neck.
There I was, expressing my wildly swinging emotions about… some topic. I don’t know—this was probably 8 years ago. But I do remember what my friend Cat said: “Well, sometimes possibility is winning, and sometimes your concerns are winning.”
It was such a simple paraphrasing of what I’d been ruminating on. It was as if I had been spinning in circles, rising into the air, and she had grabbed my ankles and given them a toss earthward. Thunk, thunk, my feet were planted. All was steady.
Because they’re both fiction—possibility and concerns. Neither is real. Neither is what’s happening right now in the moment. Neither can be measured. The battle is a fantasy.
Every so often, I’m reminded that this battle between what’s possible and what’s worrisome rages on, but I feel like I’d benefit from keeping this concept closer to the decision-making part of my brain. (Especially since my concerns tend to occur to me not as obstacles to be overcome but instead as immovable barriers.)
Plus, I’ve noticed a predisposition toward one or the other at different times, so in the spirit of knowing thmyself, I’m going to make a list. I should probably post it on the fridge. Or tattoo it onto my forearm.
Historically, when possibility has been winning:
mornings when I wake up without an alarm
pretty much all mid-mornings
Daylight Savings Time
when I’m pleasantly busy (“Action is the antidote to despair.” -Joan Baez)
generally speaking, if I’m dancing or hula hooping
66% of the time I’m at the gym
79% of dog walks
94% of the time I spend with family/friends
100% of times I’m floating on a tube down a river
Historically, when my concerns have had the upper hand:
mornings when I wake up with an alarm and/or before 7:30am
late afternoons, on days I don’t go to the gym
when I wake up in the middle of the night
non-Daylight Savings Time
when I spend too much time by myself
generally speaking, if I see pictures of myself working out or video of myself dancing
days 21-28 of my cycle
when people deviate from the script I have in my head
when I have too much free time and not enough structure
Sunday evenings
If I can stay aware and recognize when concerns are on top, I’m not saying I’ll be able to wrestle them down, but at least I can say, “Oh, look who showed up. It’s Concerns. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Sure. Gotcha. Thanks for sharing, Concerns. Now fuck off.”
When possibility’s in the lead, that’s when I need to make plans and get shit done.
What about you guys? Do you have certain times when you’re predisposed to letting one or the other win?
To: rodney.moore@ncleg.net; larry.pittman@ncleg.net cc: mickey.michaux@ncleg.net Date: 4/17/13
Dear Sirs: I read the bill, “Regulate Ownership of Aggressive Dog Breeds,” and my question is what are the requirements for NC gun owners? Must they submit to a criminal background check? Do they have to complete a safety course of no fewer than 4 hours? What about notifying their home insurers? Are they required to get a special permit from the Department of Insurance? These are not rhetorical questions. I’ve done research online, and I believe the answer to all questions is no. (From what I understand, a permit is required for a handgun but not for rifles/shotguns.) Please let me know if I’m mistaken, but if I’m not, you, Mr. Moore and Mr. Pittman, have your priorities vastly out of whack. I won’t even get into the inanity of profiling dogs by breed. Sincerely, Amy Scott
You guys, if you give a crap about this issue even a little tiny bit, please write your legislators. For me and Violet and Redford and Buffy and Tulip and ‘Nita.
Preamble: Sorry for my photography. I’m clearly limited. I have no special lighting or camera or, you know, discernable skill. But I’ll try to teach you what I learned from Kate and Michelle on our jeans excursion. Also, note that these are lessons for me-shaped women, i.e., hobbit-height, dumps like a truck truck truck/thighs like what what what. The rest o’ yous are gonna have to get your own advisors.
BEFORE:
Teacher work day–eeeeeeeeeeee.
Lesson #1 Whiskers—those horizontal, bleachy stripes on the hips—accentuate the extry-wideness. Not recommended.
Lesson #2 Repeat after me: Uniform dark wash. Any lightening of the fabric along the thighs, however imperceptible to my eye, is totally perceptible to Kate’s eye, and that means it’s a no.
Lesson #3 Gap produces reasonably-priced jeans (unlike, say, 7 for All Mankind—two hundred what now?) and has a “Curvy” line. What that means for a lady with an onion is that there won’t be a 1- to 5-inch gap between her lower back and the waistband.
Supposedly Gap makes Curvy Straight-Leg jeans, which Kate prefers, but all they had in the store was Curvy Boot-Cut and Curvy Skinny. She said get the Boot-Cut (which I did) and have them taken in a little at the ankle so they don’t bell out so much (aaaand we’ll see if I get around to that).
AFTER:
Also bought this blazer with *neon stripes*. I OWN SOMETHING NEON. <passes out> <revives self> I was told to buy it, and I do what I’m told.
Alas, the Calvin Klein(!) skinny jeans(!!!!!) are still in the bag. They will have to be hemmed. And also they will have to be come-to-terms-with. (I own skinny jeans. I own skinny jeans. I own skinny jeans.) Perhaps I’ll blog about those in a few yearsmonths weeks.
In the meantime, bonus lessons for you!
Friday night, I was out with Megalu, one of my makeup teachers and no slouch in the fashion department herself. In fact, now that I think about it, Meg was the one the night of the makeup tutorial who, right before we headed out, said, “Ame… do you have a… different sweater?” And I was all, “Do what?” And then she and Kate bippity-boppity-booed me, and that’s when I realized I didn’t know how to dress myself. Eureka, mofos, she’s the one who started this whole fashion business!
Anyway, Meg noticed my new Curvy Boot-Cuts, and we started talking about my endeavors.
Meg: Are you having any fun with it?
Me: I mean, sometimes I feel good when I know I’m wearing a legit outfit, but a lot of the time I feel really insecure. I just don’t understand how this stuff works. I’m not playing dumb—I seriously don’t get it. Swear to god, it’s renewed my empathy for my special ed kids. Kate and Michelle were explaining why I couldn’t wear my skinny jeans with short boots, and I just could. not. get it. And some of the outfits Kate laid out for me break rules that I learned when I was a kid. Like, she put the white and polka-dot camisole and the cream sweater together, but I was always told you’re not supposed to wear white and cream together.
Meg: Yeah, that’s OK now. So is black and brown.
Me: What about black and navy?
Meg: That’s OK too.
Me: (aghast) NO.
Meg: And don’t match your purse to your shoes.
Me: But should I still match my scrunchy socks to my oversize t-shirt?
Me & Meg: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
So many lessons.
Last lesson: Salesgirls at Nordstrom are snotty. [That’s one for women of any shape. You’re welcome.]
On Wednesday, after three days of finding it extremely easy to be nice to my students without even faking it, which is what I had been having to do, and this despite having to get up at stupid:30 a.m. after a long and luxurious spring break, I realized something:
A whole bunch of people said they could relate to that statement, which made me wonder, how I/we might deal with this problem in the future.
Things that might help:
Awareness? Is there a service that will email me, “Easy there, Ame; you’ve got the SAD,” every week from November to March for the rest of my life?
Moving to the Equator?
Seasonal meds? Is that a thing? Do people dose up on Celexa during non-Daylight Savings Time?
Things that don’t help:
Light box. I have one. It’s in my shed. I have to be at work at 7:15, so getting up 30 minutes earlier to sit in front of a light box? Ain’t nobody got time for that.
I was telling a friend about this problem today, and he says he uses a light—wait for it—VISOR. Like a light box, but FOR YOUR HEAD. Hahahaha.
Other thoughts?
**********
Three years ago, I was writing a lot about my students, so it’s all password-protected, but here’s a good one if you have the password.
Two years ago, I offered you all an obscene sum for a simple, simple task, and you FAILED. YOU’RE ALL FAILURES.
One year ago, I bought a new car! I love it. It is covered in dog hair and nose prints.
Apropos of nothing, you guys would tell me if you thought I had nose cancer, right? I seem to have a growth on the left side of my nose that’s been getting bigger for a few years. Probably just a wort, right? Because I’m a spinster, and spinsters get those.
