i'm not going to make you stay

+ Occasionally when someone asks me why I like waking up so early, I'll say that it's because I like to beat everybody at something at least once a day. That is partly true. (Mostly it's because I hate being late and I also hate rushing, so unless I want to invite a total fucking meltdown into my life I need two and a half hours to ease into being a person.) Lately, I've been using that same logic to get myself to drink water as soon as I wake up. If I get the whole glass down, I feel like I won something. My prize is having to pee. I wish that "being hydrated" was motivation enough, but it really isn't.

+ I think I've been pretty transparent about how violently I vacillate between "being okay" and "being a fucking psycho" when it comes to my body and how I feel about it and how I take care of it. I'm proud of myself for eating better lately (and for me, "eating better" has a slightly more complicated meaning than just "more greens, less candy") but not proud at all of the damage I've done to my metabolism over the years, and even less proud of the shit I continue to do to it in spite of knowing way, way better. The past couple months have been ENORMOUSLY better for many reasons, mostly because I have the luxury of a regular sleep/meal schedule now. My boyfriend makes my lunches for me and 90% of the time we choose whole, fresh foods. At the same time, though, my activity level has plummeted - even though I walk to work - because I am no longer running up and down stairs/around in circles/on a proverbial hamster wheel twelve hours a day. That's huge, and its impact is extremely evident. Example: I spent Friday night at my mom's house so we could pack more of my stuff away because she thinks my bedroom there is like, part of her house or something. (I will be sixty years old and PISSED if I don't have a bedroom at my mother's house. Although I guess by then she'll be the one having a bedroom in my house. Whatever, I'm sure I'll have plenty of other things to be pissed about when I'm sixty. This is not a waste of parentheses.) ANYWAY one of the things she's using my room for now is for keeping a scale inside of, and I weighed myself for the first time in many many months. And I was NOT pleased. Luckily I'm in a place where it wasn't the end of the world, because like I said, I know I've been eating well. But then in a way, that makes me MORE frustrated because - I've been eating well! WHY, SCALE? Why. And the reason why is that my biology has whiplash and doesn't trust my brain. Moral of the story is that I brought home my sports bras and sneakers so I could put the huge park that some nice people built in my backyard to use. And the confession of the story is that I'm in a really weird in-between-y sort of place… with… that. ("Just like every blog you've ever 'written,' you mean?" said everybody.)

+ I peed on the floor at work. I wasn't overtired. I didn't have scotch for lunch. I just sat too far forward on the seat, and the next thing I knew there was pee on the floor.

+ I intentionally left "toilet" and "bathroom" out of that last confession so you would maybe imagine that I peed just, you know, on the floor in front of everybody.

+ There was a brief moment where I considered not cleaning it up - only one other girl works where I work, and where there's fifteen dudes and one bathroom there's bound to be some pee on the floor sometimes, right? But then I remembered about karma and also about hygiene and so I did clean it up.

If you're thinking that having a unisex bathroom in real life is anything like Ally McBeal, you're wrong. Dead wrong.

Thanks again to Becky for giving me a reason to blog, and for giving my boyfriend a reason to ask me what I'm doing on the computer for so long fifty times. 

I am watching Amber Portwood on Dr. Phil as I write these.

I have never thought about my nails more than I have in the past few weeks, and it's rubbing a little spot in my brain pretty raw. This is one of the only jobs I've ever had that doesn't at some point require handling some sort of soil, dead animal, or child-related substance (paste, poop, you know.) Plus my nail beds are on the deeper side so I can get away with keeping them short and still have something to polish when I feel like it. So this is the first time I've ever let them grow, and it is equal parts awesome and anxiety-provoking. They look so pretty IF I DO SAY SO MYSELF, but I had to figure out how to use a file because I'm not a damn Rockefeller and ten dollars a week (bonus baby confession: I overtip) for a manicure takes too much away from my Diet Coke and cigarettes fund. So the real confession here is that last night I legitimately almost cried over my fingernails. Luckily my boyfriend was there to talk me through it. By which I of course mean that he threatened to stop cooking dinner if I cried real tears over fingernails that there were ten of and that were not bleeding. 

My mom met me in the city on Saturday, and we spent the whole day taking selfies in Central Park. We briefly left the park to get lunch at Shake Shack because Shake Shack duh and also, I eat kale and beets all week so. This confession is sort of two parts. The first is that after I ate a milkshake and a cheeseburger and french fries with my mom, I met my boyfriend and his family for his dad's birthday dinner and ate ANOTHER burger for dinner. To be fair to myself, the burgers were made of different meats. And to be even more fair to myself, the Nutella-drenched belgian waffle I ate off a truck that same day had strawberries on it. So, nutrients. The second part of the confession is that whenever I go to Central Park I imagine myself into some fantastical scenario. Like, I'm traveling in time and have landed in Central Park. Or I'm filming a reality show. Or I'm in a Woody Allen movie. Or I'm a King. Or a celebrity trying to be under the radar. 

This picture isn't from this weekend, it's from like February, but look at the weird look on my face. In this picture, in my brain, I have just emerged from a wardrobe door into Central Park.

This picture IS from this weekend. It's my mom's butt. 

The last confession for this week is that I have been walking a couple of blocks out of my way on the way to work every morning in order to walk past a doughnut bakery. I'm not even that into doughnuts. I'm never like, "Oh man I could really go for a doughnut right now." Ever. But I literally followed the scent of doughnuts to this doughnut factory last week and now it's my routine. My daily doughnut sniffing. (The one where Jim leaves Michael at the gas station and Holly tracks him to the rooftop? Anyone?) 

Thank you to Becky for prompting me to blog, and therefore distracting me from obsessing over my nails. 

scissor me!

First let me address the cat, because otherwise you won't appreciate the depth/many layers of meaningful content that you've come to rely on finding when you do a Google search for "symptoms of DPD" and wind up here. You won't appreciate it because it's hard to appreciate things when you're busy thinking "It's so sad how she thinks she can paint cats but really she can't at all" or "That is revolting. Also offensive to cats everywhere."

I know it's a scary cat. And there was another creepy cat, and I paid a nice lady to paint them both on my fingers. Only, in my excitement re: Cats, I showed her several pictures in an effort to make it clear what I wanted. Because all of my efforts at clarity involve making things more complicated, re: Not Understanding What Clarity Is.  And that plus a slight language barrier plus I was paying more attention to the slightly snowy Asian-language soap opera on the TV equaled before I knew it, the nice lady had spent quite some time on those creepy cat eyes because that's what she thought I wanted. She was very unsure about the whole thing, I could tell. But I didn't want to make her do it over again, because meh, and so I gave the cats a day to get less creepy and when they didn't I put them to bed forever. That was two weeks ago, and my nails are even longer now because all of a sudden long nails are something I think I want, and I think I'm ready to try again.

I guess I'm not going to address much more than the cat after all.

It is nice to not be running on next to no sleep all the time, and it's even nicer to leave for work at a time that is not basically the middle of the night. The sleep factor alone has done so much to improve… like, everything. I've also been drinking more water (still not enough, but more than before, which was none, I was pretty much squeezing water OUT of my body, like a sponge that I was playing a rousing game of "HOW DRY CAN I MAKE THIS SPONGE BE?" with, how many more commas can I put in here, ,,,,,,) and eating a little cleaner, so those things are also contributing to my not being so completely wretched. I do not know how I did what I was doing for as long as I did it. I'm glad I did, but I'm glad I'm not doing it anymore.

I just realized that there were too many things I was putting on hold for the sake of getting other things done "first." And I thought, well, Future Lindsay might appreciate some of the things, but she'll be pretty pissed off if she misses out on EVERY SINGLE OTHER thing in the meantime. And then that bitch Future Lindsay will probably find some new thing she has to do "first" and that'll piss off Future FUTURE Lindsay. And it will never end. And it will be terrible.

As terrible as snow in April. (This picture was taken at the end of March, but I said "April" instead for dramatic effect, because New England/being a wuss.)

Yes, I want to fill a lot of hours with a lot of activities. But I also want to get dressed up and go out to dinner and not fall asleep in my plate. I want to go to happy hour sometimes, and not have to be tucked in at the bar because happy hour is actually my bedtime. I want Time Off, not Breathers Snatched. And I need to fill some hours with no activities.

My timeline for getting done the things I want to get did is MY timeline, and nobody is really measuring it except for me. And when I think about how consciously I've made decisions in order to preserve the relative freedoms I have, it seems FUCKING goddamn silly to not enjoy them. I have to admit that it's extremely difficult to put the brakes on so, uh, screechingly in areas where I've been steadily gaining so much momentum lately. And it's an adjustment to go from a workplace where I knew everything and was the most best at all of it to a place where I am new, and learning, and have room to grow. (There might have been some room to grow where I was before, but if there was I couldn't find it because I zZzzz.)

This seemed like a good place to put another picture. I'm thinking of doing a hair tutorial for how to make your hair look not like shit for work after 1743 failed hair tutorials. Anyway, so. Here's to not running yourself ragged for no good reason. Here's to remembering how important it is to listen to that little voice inside (be careful though, it might just be the creepy little cats on your nails - they have very similar voices.) Here's to knowing your own limits, and respecting yourself enough to honor them. Here's to measuring your life by your own yardstick (give everyone else their yardstick back, seriously.) Here's to framing your life however the hell you want to.

And here's to paying too much for drinks at clubs that won't even pony up for a real sign. Just kidding, do not cheers to that ever. Reverse cheers. Sreehc. But cheers to having the energy to go to them when your cute boyfriend wants to, even if you are only in it for the lollipops.

And speaking of, cheers to the life partners who are sometimes annoying but are most of the times busy making you elaborate dinners and lunches to take to work every day that make all your coworkers jealous but also make them fascinated at the seemingly endless supply of kale in your refrigerator. And other of the times they are just being cute and scratching your head until you go to sleep and writing you cute notes and having cute faces and toes. The life partners, not the coworkers. Sentence structure got a little weird there, thanks for sticking around.

Also, when did this turn into a toast? And why the transition from "here's" to "cheers"?

Anyway, I'd quit all the jobs and the schools and the cities in favor of wandering around for the rest of forever with you. Because even when I'm talking to somebody else, I'm still really talking to you.

MAYBE THERE COULD BE A PICTURE WITH BOTH OUR FACES IN IT IF YOU DIDN'T DELETE ALL OF THEM. 

I was thinking "New Week's Resolutions"

So I have a lot of words? They sound good together when they're in my head, like, in the morning when I'm looking at the water and watching my neighbors walk their dogs before I have put on lipstick and go be a person. They also sound pretty good when I'm in the shower or getting my nails done or holding a phone four inches away from my ear because SOMEONE IS VERY DISGRUNTLED - pretty much any time my hands are not available for pinning those babies to paper, the words are there. So in other words (they have to be other words, mine aren't good right now, I just explained that to you don't look at me like that) not now. Not when I am sitting here, smelling pineapple sriacha chicken salad with honey lime dressing being prepared for flight to my face. And not when I just spent my rent money on ebooks. ("Oh thanks Mom this will be so great for school!" ajjafjajajajahaha ja. ja.)

I took these on my walk home from work today. From, you know, the new job I got without telling anyone I was even looking (besides my boyfriend - he can't hide the creepy dried shrimps with eyes in our "kitchen" cabinets, I can't hide extreme exhaustion for long.) Also I got a haircut bye.

"Your whole life is a break, Lindsay," said the Chorus That I Think Of You All As.

The place where I work plays Sirius XM "The Blend." It was once known as "All Cher, All The Time" and is often known as "The Station That Makes Everyone Hate Rod Stewart."

(I like Cher. And my mom used to sing "Forever Young" to me as a lullaby. But stay with me.)

This is the only song I have not gotten sick of hearing on repeat a million billion times:



(Am I wrong for saying that I choose another way?)

I didn't realize the singer (singers? also never heard of this/these artist(s?) before) is African - nope, sorry, they're "Afro-Norwegian" according to the website I just googled to make sure I didn't make a mistake and look like I don't know what I'm talking about. THAT IS A TERRIBLE SENTENCE BUT I WON'T FIX IT BECAUSE THIS ISN'T A REAL BLOG POST. It's just a post to tell you that I want to put more things here. And will. Soon. Anyway, I didn't realize because their voices are sort of mechanical-y, right? And also the PA system or speaker system or whatever you call it at my work and/or The G-Damn Blend watered down the cool African drum-y thing going on in the song. I'm so pissed about this - I wonder if I really would like listening to Cher's worst songs on repeat if The Bland didn't bland them all up so much. And do you know, sometimes someone will be like, "Oh I like this song very much, have you heard it?" and I have to be like "YOU LIKE THAT SONG WHO ARE YOU!?" and then I am not that person's friend anymore. Because no I do not like that song, but now I'm rethinking my likes because I think I may just be the victim of severe Brain Blending. I'm very confused and upset, is what I'm trying to tell you.

Keep it moving, Lindsay. Don't read back over what you just wrote. Don't do it. Don't. Because then you will lose an hour and you've allotted only five minutes for this. Head up. Eyes forward. Hit return. Onward, soldier.

Okay. Anyway, I only just today really paid attention to the lyrics of the song and realized why it probably stood out to me as far less sucky than the others. (Honestly, really, how much are the labels paying to be the ONLY five songs on this station? And how much are they paying public places to play that station? And also, I've been letting the Youtube playlist go and it's literally playing The Blend playlist on its own. Gblah. From now on I will only listen to underground music. As in, music that is literally made underground. By moles. Or gophers. Ooh, also: Sounds of Earthworms.)

Which led me to think about how, for all of the randomness there is to be had all around us, there is still much that harmonizes in the universe. I am of the "everything happens for a reason" school of thought but also of the school next door where they sell cigars and their slogan is that "It is what it is." (A cigar. It's just a cigar. Sometimes.)

PS, Do yourself a favor in between obsessively refreshing my blog for updates about how fancy I am. Type "Sounds of Earthworms" into YouTube. When you get to the Muppets, stop and thank me.

PPS I have successfully NOT SAID ONE REAL THING. Also, successfully completed a non-edited, non-re-read blog post. I'm not counting it as free writing because I took too many breaks.

clothilde and her birds

We've spoken before about my eyeballs and the space they occupy. The gauzy curtains that sometimes filter what light might come through. The dark shapes I perceive through the curtains, the terrifying puppet show where shadows that loom large and menacing are just someone's own small hands. The distress of what I can't see clearly. The tiredness, and the vacillation from it to a painful alertness. 

I walked home yesterday along the same street I always do, and while I was passing the same construction site that's been there for months I thought I felt myself drying up at the edges. I felt ready to be picked and blown away. Like scabs, like flowers. One thing has nothing to do with the other, except as an example of the strange parallels I construct and then straddle. 

I'm not sad, except when I am. Right now I'm not sad. Right now I've got dinner in the oven and I'm hoping it doesn't dry out by the time my boyfriend gets home to eat it with me. I spent today trimming my hair and painting my toenails and grocery shopping and doing some other tiny things that will almost certainly be neglected when school starts again next week, until May. When I feel like I'm stretched too thin, when there are too many people and not enough me I try to think "This is where we are right now." (It's "we" because I think that way now, in terms of "we.") We are in the place where sometimes Diego just gets what's left over of Lindsay after this and that and the other thing. We're in the place of the stories we will tell our children about when we were first starting out. I don't love my job, but I love things about it and I love the relative freedoms it allows me for now. I don't always love the long walk to the train but I don't always mind it and I love my boheme apartment and I love love love the neighborhood I live in. Most importantly, I love the person with whom I'm sharing this little life I'm patching together. That he's strong enough to act on his feelings, that he's strong enough not to. That he responds to my fingers around his. So no, I'm not sad. Or I don't feel like I should be sad, maybe, is more accurate. 

That's life, though. Ebb and flow. Fertile and fallow, happy and sad. I think it's interesting to look at what we mean when we say we're "sad," or what I mean. Lovely things spring out of sadness, songs and poems and paintings and books. It is so essential a part of life, this sadness thing, and yet when we are it - or at least, when I am it - I'm inclined to furrow. To hide it. What am I doing wrong that I'm sad? Something must be wrong in my life for me to feel anything besides happy. 

Think about something else. Stay busy. Be productive, do better. 

Think about something else. Close your eyes.

I want to only engage with the things in my life that make me happy and that are positive. I am fully aware that there are things I am actively avoiding, and that this avoidance has become such a part of my thought process and the way I interpret the world that I've forgotten how to be another way. It seems that I've reached a point where it's either unpack some of this stuff and work through it, or what I don't know. It's unpacking itself, at any rate - I can't do one thing without the buzzing of a thousand Other Things in the background. There is a news ticker at the bottom of the window in which I view the world, the window with the gauze curtain, and it never stops running and I can't see past it. Wanting to only see the good has made it impossible to enjoy what's in front of me, which is why I think this whole sadness thing is worth taking a closer look at. Perhaps I should sit with it a while, intentionally stick my hands right in and let it slide through my fingers. Really let myself learn what it feels like. Find out what's underneath it all. 

See how I can use it. 

tracing your body and shaking your bones

I don't know why Diego's upper lip is white in the last picture. Let's just pretend that Mexicans have a New Year's tradition of drinking glasses of milk to ward off calcium deficiency in the coming year. What we don't have to pretend is that they eat a ton of food, drink a ton of champagne, and stuff a dozen grapes into their faces in the minute before the ball drops. It is a testament to our union, and a sign of the universe's approval I think, that I am so comfortable around Diego's family, since the part of my brain labeled "Being a Human Around Other Humans Without Getting Sweaty or Wanting to Cry" doesn't always work all that well. So, yes, fa la la la la la la it's over. And now we just have to get past my birthday so that we (I) can gratefully settle in to the part of the year where the only holidays revolve around small mammals and beer. 

I have to write more. It has to be a priority.

Also: haircut, finish organizing apartment.

Vegetables.