Stop the insanity

At what point do we get mad? When do we as humans stand from the mountaintops and shout, "Who gives anybody the right to tell me what I should weigh, how I should dress, what I should eat? How dare you tell me I shouldn't be happy because I do not look like someone in an advertisement? How dare anyone draw me down into their own insecurities. You don't like the way you look and feel, fine. Take it up with your shrink. But don't bring the rest of us into your dysfunction. What if what I am is enough?"
My friend Mars has long had this figured out. She's always been comfortable with who she is -- and never seemed to believe anyone who would try to tell her differently. I have always admired her for this -- and wished I could be more like her, but thought it couldn't be for me.
I have this weird perfection thing. I'm assuming it's the result of something in my childhood. Maybe I thought I had to perfect to be loved. As an adult, I know intellectually that's not the case, but emotionally it's another matter.
I wonder if I think I deserve to be healthy and happy. I wonder if I get so much pleasure out of being a victim that I will never let down my guard and just be me. I know I have all these people in in my life that love me unconditionally -- the only one that doesn't, really, is me.
I am the one who always looks in the mirror and says, "I love you, but..." Now, if someone did that to my children I'd be furious, but somehow I allow myself to do it to me. What gives me the right to judge myself so critically? Who am I to know what's perfection and what is not?
When will I stop this insanity and just be comfortable in my skin -- celebrate me?

Ok -- so I'm not doing so hot on the whole "write on the blog"every day thing. Some days I'm just too tired and sometimes I'm distracted. Oh well -- some consistency is better than none, I suppose.
In my efforts to learn balance and boundaries in my life, I tried scheduling my day. I sat down and wrote out everything I thought I should get done today. The first thing was get up at 5 (after going to bed at 11) and shower and clean out the car. I woke up at 6:30.
I still managed to get everything done, but no where near as gracefully as I'd hoped.
Next, I was going to work straight for two hours and in that time prepare 5-8 stories for publication, prepare for a meeting, check my e-mail -- oh and get a blood test done in the office wellness program. In reality, I checked my e-mail, laughed with my co workers, went the meeting only half prepared and tried to orient my temp on my job. Oh, and got the blood draw done and ate breakfast at the office.
Later I was going to run errands -- including getting groceries, installing my snow tires, and making a bank deposit.
I made the bank deposit.
Now, probably to any normal human in the world, I had a reasonable productive day. So why do I look at a day and try to figure out how to fill it with so many hours of over achievement no human could ever get it done -- and then wonder why I'm stressed out and miserable??
Why does it make sense to me? I schedule no time for joy and then feel guilty when I'm laughing with my co workers cause I should be focusing on work?
So tomorrow I'm just going to try to get one thing done -- an interview and preparation for a story due Friday. One thing. It could work.
I keep thinking that I could try to get some other things done. Well crap, I'll have to write my column since I forgot to write it tonight. But it won't take too long. And I'll need to set up another story. So maybe I'll get three things done.
This whole keep it simple thing is so complicated.

Seahawk Blue

Taking inspiration from Mars and Sallyacious I think I'll try a to write a blog entry every day for one month.
We just got back from Seattle. We went to a Seahawk game. It was wonderful! I'd show you pictures but I didn't take any and my friend hasn't sent me any yet. We arrived in the Emerald City Thursday night and by Sunday I felt myself coming close to actually relaxing. I'm hoping I didn't overdo anything though. You know how sick I get. I woke up this morning and my eyes were gooped shut. Not a good sign.
So my counselor has talked me into taking a leave of absence away from work. I've told the paper I'm going to take six to eight weeks off. Exhaustion. Gawd I feel like a loser. I get myself into this spirals every other year and you would think I would have learned by now not to do it. My counselor thinks the combination of grief, exhaustion and marital problems is taking a toll. Go figure.
Anyway, I'll have to check with my counselor every day and I have a limit to what I can do. She thinks I'll stay too busy even if I'm not working. (Can you imagine?) I hate it that she's got me so figured out. Am I that obvious?
Oh! So back to the Seattle -- I had a great time with friends and the stadium was wonderful etc. But here's the wierd thing: I landed in Boise and I was sad. I may be tired and starting to come down with something, but you know what I think it was? I think I was mad at Clem and didn't know it until later. My bag was heavy and when I was pulling it up the stairs at my friend OJ's house, she ordered her fiance' Bob to help me with it and kept saying "Where's Clem?" It just never occurs to me to expect help from him -- especially these days when I'm taking a new "expect nothing" approach (it's one of a thousand of baby steps toward healing our marriage -- it makes me crazy, but everyone says it will work. Whatever.)But then as I'm towing my luggage toward our car, I thought, "Perhaps a real man pulls his wifes suitcase and she pulls his lighter bag." I'm certainly not helpless -- and lets face it, I'm probably stronger in some areas than Clem -- should I expect chivalry? Does it make me less independent and capable? It's so confusing to be a fabulous babe, hot mama queen of it all, liberal educated feminist who wants so much to be treated like a princess and spoiled rotten. The reality is I'd just love some common courtesy. Besides it sort of freaks me out when men do nice things for me. I'm not sure what it means.
So during this time off -- I'm supposed to learn how to better balance my time -- and include more health and fitness stuff 'cause I really do want to be healthy and fit -- as it makes me happy and this whole process about my happiness afterall. So I'm guessing I'll get to work out more without guilt -- for not being at work or at home or something else. Mars wants to do Bloomsday. I think that's good. I'm going to do it with her.
Then I'll feel purple instead of blue.

Remembering Joy

I spent the weekend in Moscow. I had forgotten how much I love it there. My friend Cyndi and I drove up to see our friend Sally in a play. She was, of course, fabulous.
The rolling wheat fields crested by evergreens welcomed me back. It has been seven years since I visited my college town.
As we drove around, I could physically feel the stress leaving my shoulders. I'm not sure what it is about the place -- but I've always felt at home there. Not sure why I actually left now.
It's an eight hour trip for me so had lots of time to think -- and talk with Cyndi. We're both dealing with grief -- trying to figure out how to cope with loss and heart break in our own way.
I've been trying to find time to do the things that bring me joy with limited success so far -- walking around Moscow -- even for a moment was a good start.
Sally does these cool artist trading card things -- So I think I'll do that. I need some breathing space -- as always, but more now than ever. I suck at balance -- I'm two months from 40 and you'd think I'd have figured it out -- but no -- still struggling up that path.
I've also been reminded lately of how much I enjoy being outside -- walking, breathing -- seeing.
I've set a goal of making a hike up Elbow Creek. It's a place I know little about -- it's outside Stanley and once you make it to the top, there's a pool and a view of the Sawtooths. My friend Cassidy told me about it -- and I've become obsessed.
I'll have to train for it -- so Cyndi is helping me devise a plan. I'm going to do it June 21. The Solstice. It seems right -- appropriate. Transition.
I'm going chronicle the training here I guess. Maybe it will make a great book.
I'm scared and the dark voices in my head keep telling me I can't do it. That I haven't given myself enough time to train -- that I'll never make the climb.
Fuck 'em. I'm going to do it. Who is joining me?