doahleigh - Holy Waste of Teabags!

Breathe. Sometimes I have to remind myself to exhale. Sometimes I have to take a deep breath to steady myself. Sometimes I stop in the middle of what I’m doing so I can close my eyes, breathe and stop the spinning.

Sleep is becoming a problem. I haven’t gotten any real sleep in a week. The last two nights I had two Excederin PM pills in me, and I still laid awake for hours. I’m tired and I’m weary. It’s making it harder to stave off the sadness. I’m tired and weary and sad, and I keep forgetting to breathe.

Today I start classes. I woke up at 6:50am and I won’t be home until after 9pm. I need a nap, but instead I have to be “on” for 14 straight hours. I’m not ready for this semester. It should be a distraction for me, but instead it feels like a big heavy burden that I’m not strong enough to carry.

I’m so tired of feeling bad. Everyone keeps saying it will get better, and I know I won’t feel like this my whole life, but I can’t believe I still wake up most days and feel the heaviness on my heart. I still have the knot in my stomach, I still have the lump in my throat from holding back tears. It’s been just over five weeks, and I have felt every single second of those weeks. Not a second has gone by that I wasn’t aware of. Time flies when you’re having fun, but time is endless when you feel the weight of every passing minute. I wish I could wake up tomorrow and feel better so this could all be behind me. It’s so hard to imagine that in another five weeks I might still be carrying some of this with me. Five weeks? That’s like an eternity in my mind. I can’t possible get through another five weeks of this. I’m not even sure how I’m going to get through today.

I’m so angry and hurt that he made me feel this way. He’s the one who admitted he just couldn’t get himself to do the work he knew was necessary. He’s the one who was unwilling to commit. He’s the one who couldn’t give his all and who probably took me for granted. So why am I the one hurting? Shouldn’t it be me who says, I deserve better, so I’m done with you. Look what you’re missing, look what you’re giving up! Shouldn’t he be the one who regrets not doing enough for me and for us? Shouldn’t he be hurting? How did this all get so backwards?

I’ve tried to convince my heart that in fact it was me who broke up with him because I know I deserve better than him. All those times that I got frustrated and questioned our future and he asked me not to give up on him – well it finally was too much and I walked away for my own good. That’s what I tell my heart. But my heart doesn’t really care because no matter what, it’s broken. Even if I had been the one to leave, it would have been because this man who I had invested my whole self in decided he couldn’t do the same. Because the one person I wanted to love me forever couldn’t do that. Because all my hard work was rejected. Because all my faith in him was wasted. It would have been because I wasn’t loved by the person I loved, and that causes a broken heart no matter who does the leaving.

Still, he should be the one hurting, not me. But it is me.

And it’s still not going away.

I’ve learned that I don’t handle grief well. Or at least I don’t handle it quietly. I can’t push it away and I can’t ignore it. It’s always right there. I make lists of the things that I can be thankful for, I seek out the things that make me happy, I try to distract myself, I try to force myself to be happy. But after five and a half weeks I’m just so tired. And weary. And sad.

[Thank you to everyone for continuing to be there for me with your comments and emails. I know nothing I write really reflects it, but reading your support has truly helped. The last five weeks would have been even worse if I couldn't write about it all, and in return learn from all of you.]

Well, I’m officially on Xanax. Or at least I have a small pill bottle handy for when I need it… which I hope isn’t often.

I’m glad I saw a doctor, but I must admit that I felt a little ridiculous sitting on the exam table explaining that I was there because my boyfriend realized he didn’t love me and he broke up with me, and I can’t handle it so please medicate me. I almost never go to the doctor and there I am, having my blood pressure taken because of a broken heart.

There was a moment when I was sitting in the exam room alone, after the nurse took my vitals and before the PA came in, that I suddenly became aware of myself. Sitting in a sterile room, staring vacantly into a corner. Feeling empty and alone. How did this happen to me?

And worse. Instead of snapping out of it, I seriously wished I could curl up in that corner and just lay quietly. Maybe sleep if I’m lucky. It was a corner kind of tucked behind the exam table. It was dark and small and private. I wanted to just curl up and be there until they made me leave.

Then suddenly my alarm went off. I heard the little tune that my phone plays when I have to use it as an alarm. And for a second I wished that maybe I was asleep and I had been dreaming all along. And now it was time to get up and live the life I had a month ago. But no, it was just a cell phone in the next room. Thin walls I guess.

But oh well. This is my life now. We’ll see what I can do with it I guess.

People are starting to catch on at work. They ask me what’s wrong and when I say I’m fine, they come up with their own reasons. Are you tired? Not feeling well? I just agree with them. It’s easier to say I’m tired or sick than to tell the truth.

One sign of the times: I haven’t had a bowl of cereal for breakfast since Wednesday, before the all too honest email. Breakfast cereal to me is like coffee to most people—my day doesn’t feel right if it doesn’t start that way. But I’ve hardly been able to eat anything at all.

The Xanax has been nice, mostly because it knocks me out. I don’t usually sleep well, but I took some both Thursday and Friday before bed and fell asleep hard. Unfortunately that means I can’t take it during the day when I sometimes feel the worst. Saturday I almost fell over in the shower because I couldn’t stop crying and I couldn’t hold myself up. I often find myself stopping to just lean on something and catch my breath even though I haven’t exerted myself at all. I don’t want to take anything unless I really think I need it though, so I survived Saturday med-free. But on Sunday I started to feel panicky, and I took a Xanax to relax. Instead of just relaxing, I waited a half hour, then stumbled to bed where I slept for two hours. Sleeping keeps the thoughts away though, so I don’t mind.

My friends and family have been pretty awesome. Robin and her boyfriend Jason took me miniature golfing on Saturday where I actually found myself laughing a few times. That was nice. Too bad I can’t distract myself with putt-putt all day every day. My sisters check in with me regularly to make sure I’m okay, and both mom and dad and many friends have called or emailed to check in too. My friend Lauren said she wanted to visit me on Sunday, but she lives on the other side of the state, so I told her she was crazy, I was fine. She came anyway. Bearing gifts. She drove over two hours to see me and came through the door with her arms full of books, candy and flowers. My sadness could not possibly be worth such incredibly kind acts of friendship.

Lauren let me talk about the things I needed to talk about, then we talked about a million other things because she and I are so much alike. She’s very wise and has an amazing outlook, and I’m so thankful for her visit. And for everything all my friends and family and blog readers have done. I try to gain perspective by knowing that others are going and have gone through much worse, but I’m not very good at that. So thank you to everyone who doesn’t think I’m ridiculous for struggling so much with this.

Last night Lauren actually had me convinced for awhile that despite my incredibly high standards, hopes and expectations, there really could be someone out there for me. If the one person I’ve found who met (most of) those standards doesn’t want me, how am I ever going to find someone else? Brad was the one and he didn’t want me. What can be left? But she really made me believe it was possible.

Except when she left I went to bed lonely and woke up feeling empty again. Why doesn’t he want me? And why do I even care anymore? I should be able to know that I deserve better than to cry over someone who isn’t crying over me. I wish my heart could figure that out.

I was sitting in the car, on the phone with my dad. It was a nice day so I rolled down the windows and talked to him in the parking lot rather than try to fight traffic while chatting. The sun was bright, so I put the visor down to block it. The mirror on the visor was open so I was staring at myself while we talked. I was studying my complexion, noting the errant hairs near my eyebrows, counting the freckles that always show up on my nose in the summer. I was looking at my teeth, inspecting their cleanliness, when I noticed them. Wrinkles. Smile lines. Little creases between my nose and the corners of my mouth. Hardly noticeable, but there nonetheless.

I don’t so much mind having smile lines if that is in fact what they are. I hope it means I’ve done a lot of smiling. But I was kind of hoping the wrinkles would hold off until my 30s at least. I think what freaks me out the most is that wrinkles are permanent. I have problems with permanent.

I’ve been putting off getting my Z tattoo because I can’t decide where I want to permanently ink myself. The idea of settling in and living or working in one place “for life” makes me squirmy. I don’t even like to use permanent marker!

A wrinkle isn’t like a zit that will eventually go away. It’s not a bruise that eventually fades or a cut that eventually heals. It’s not a bad haircut that will grow out or a rash that will clear up. It’s there. Forever. That wrinkle next to my nose will be there tomorrow and next month and next year. It will be there when I’m 30 and 40 and 50 and 80. That very same wrinkle. There will be others as time goes on of course, but that wrinkle that I discovered while sitting in my car, talking on the phone, that same one will be there forever. When I’m an old lady I’ll look at the wrinkle – it will be much larger and deeper then – and remember when it first showed up, back in my 20s.

I promised myself that I would try to embrace aging as it comes, but the idea of being unable to do anything about those two little wrinkles, except watch them get more prominent, kind of makes me uncomfortable. Maybe I should name them, maybe then I’d think of them as friends who I’d like to see stick around. I can greet them in the morning and be proud as I watch them progress. Maybe I could even teach them tricks.

So what’s a good name for a wrinkle?

One time Brad and I talked about which identifying marks we’d use if ever we had to identify each other at the morgue. Like if our faces had been eaten off and we had to rely on birthmarks or scars to recognize each other. I can’t remember what we decided for Brad (so hon, don’t die and get your face eaten off until we’ve talked about this again), but I do remember mine. It’s pretty obvious: my freckle patch.

Maybe you’ve noticed it in pictures before and wondered, what the hell is on her arm? I get that all the time. Especially after a long winter when I start wearing short sleeves again. Suddenly there’s this splotch on my arm that has been hidden for months, and everyone’s curious. You know that look you get when you’ve got something in your teeth? People try to look you in the eye, but they keep glancing down? They think they’re being subtle, but the eye shift is pretty obvious every time they sneak a peek at your mouth? Well that’s what I get, only they’re looking at my arm.

Here, you can see it in this picture:

Did you catch that? Here it is a little closer (ignore the fat rolls and chubby arm please, focus on the freckles):

There’s no explanation for the freckle patch, it’s just, well, a patch of freckles. I have random freckles scattered all over my body, as do all my sisters (thanks for that Dad), but it’s as if all the freckles on my right arm forgot to spread out. They were born, and then they were supposed to migrate, but nobody told them, so they stay there huddled together.

I’ve tried to count the freckles many times, and so have lots of other people – I think it’s somewhere around 30, but everyone comes up with something different. Depends if you count certain splotches as one or two, and if you count the really tiny ones that look like pin pricks. At first, most people think it’s a faded temporary tattoo. Others say it looks like henna. My dad thinks it’s funny to lick his thumb and pretend to try to wipe away the “dirt” on my arm. He does this nearly every time I see him and has been since I was little. It’s one of my favorite ongoing jokes.

I’ve tried to get certain other people to have the exact same splotch tattooed on the same place of their arm, kind of like a “friendship” tattoo, but so far nobody’s going for it. Brad said if we ever get married, he might consider it, which is really saying something since he’s sooo not a tattoo guy. It’s not as crazy as having my name tattooed across his shoulder blades (hello Mr. Mariah Carey), but I think it’d be a true sign of commitment. Because otherwise how do you explain why you tattooed a freckle patch on your arm?

Most people won’t ask me about it. They not-so-subtly check it out while talking to me, but don’t dare to inquire. I don’t say anything about it either, even though it’s obvious they’re looking, but if someone asks me, I’m always happy to talk about my freckle patch. I think it’s really cool and unique – it’s one of my favorite distinguishing marks. And it’s definitely a really good way to identify me if I ever end up faceless in a morgue.

(Except, what if my face and my right arm are eaten off? Then what? Then you look at the fourth toe on my right foot. But I’ll have to tell you about that one later…)

This weekend was gorgeous! Well Sunday was at least. I spent the majority of Friday night and Saturday doing school work—it always takes so much longer than I anticipate—so those days weren’t quite so enjoyable. But because I got it all done, I was able to enjoy Sunday without a single homework worry. I made cupcakes in the morning, then Brad and I went to the park to hang out for awhile. We have two really great parks near our place, and my favorite thing to do with a gorgeous spring day is walk around or sit around or lay around in one of them. After the park we grabbed an early dinner, then I got ready to host my book club. That’s what the cupcakes were for.

That got done in time for me to watch the last half of the MTV Movie Awards, and then, conveniently, they played the whole thing over again so I watched the first half before going to bed. Two things to note:

1. I’m totally falling for the Robert Downey Jr. craze right now. I can’t help it, there’s something about his new look and swagger that catches my attention. Yes, I admit, I have a little crush on RDJ.
2. But more importantly, I have a slightly disturbing crush on Johnny Depp. I mean I’ve always had a thing for him, but I don’t really get all gaga for any celebrity. It’s not in me to put that much effort into celebrity crush. I joke about him igniting my girl parts, but I’ve never actually had an unintentional physical reaction to him. But when he was accepting his award last night, I got warm. Like actually warm. My body temperature increased. The hell? That has never happened before, not even in the six plus hours I watched him as Capt. Jack Sparrow, who, if you’ll remember, was the person whose poster Brad and I hung in our bedroom for awhile.

The weekend ended with a horrible night’s sleep last night. And now today I’m tired and grumpy. Great way to start the week no?

Brad reaches over and pinches my thigh. Then he pinches my belly. Then my upper arm.

S: Hey, why are you grabbing all my fat?
B: I’m not, I’m just pinching your appendages.
S: Oh great, my stomach has gotten so fat it’s now an appendage?

It’s so fun to catch them traps like that isn’t it?

I have another dentist story. I went yesterday for my six month cleaning, and the hygienist totally ripped at my gums. Normally I don’t mind the dentist because I have decent teeth and few problems, but something was going on yesterday. Plaque or tartar or something. She even offered to give me some topical anesthetic because I kept cringing. I declined because I’m tough, but dang. Ow! They hurt the rest of the night, and I couldn’t even eat my pasta dinner until it cooled down. Hot food hurts.

Also, I spit on myself a couple times. She kept putting the sucky tube thingy right on the tip of my tongue, blocking the hole, so instead of the water being sucked into the tube, it would spray out the side of my mouth. After the second time, she goes, “Don’t put your tongue on it, just close your mouth around it like a straw.”

Really? Cuz after 27 years I still haven’t figured out how to use the sucky tube at the dentist. Oh wait, maybe it’s because I don’t know how to use a straw. I’m supposed to close my mouth around it? Not stick my tongue in the hole? Damn, no wonder.

Of course by the time she reprimanded me, my mouth was jacked open with instruments so all I could do was say, “Eh hegh heh eh geh.”

When she took the tools out though, I clarified: “I think I keep spitting on myself because the ‘straw’ is at the edge of my tongue. It’s forcing the water out my mouth.” She humored me with a polite smile but basically ignored me. However, when she tried to use the sucky tube the next time, she realized where she was placing it. “Oh I guess I do keep putting it there. No wonder you keep spitting. Ha.”

Yeah. Well actually it’s because I’m an infant in an adult body. Not your fault at all.

The other day FOAM talked about a time the crotch of her pants ripped while stretching for a rousing round of bowling. That inspired me to tell my pants-ripping story because who doesn’t love a crushingly embarrasing story?

It was the semester I had taken off between transferring colleges. I had returned from working four months at Yellowstone and I was making money as a temp. My current temp position was in the records department of a hospital—they were going through a major filing system change, and it was my job to go down to the records room, load up a cart with patient files, bring them upstairs and unload them for others to relabel. I was really putting my talents to use, huh?

Anyway, one day I’m in the stacks trying to find a particular patient’s file, and I’m wearing these pants that were ollllldd. Like from freshman year of high school. I was poor and I was doing physical work, yet I was expected to dress business causual, so I was forced to haul out every and anything I had that met the criteria. Pants too sizes too small? As long as they’re not denim! So the patient’s file was on the very bottom shelf, and there’s not much room to move in the stacks—they’re the space-saving kind that you have to electronically move to get into. In order to get to the bottom shelf, I was contorting my limbs and stretching those too-small, too-old pants in ways they weren’t meant to be stretched.

Rip!

Right down the front. From near the top of the front-right pocket to half-way down my inner thigh. Clear panty shot, no mistaking. I froze because what the hell else do you do when you suddenly have a hole the size of a child’s head in the front of your pants? You freeze and pray that god will magically transport you from this place.

There wasn’t much I could do. I was a temp who was hardly valued. Leaving work in the middle of the day means someone else has your job tomorrow. I was also young and lame and didn’t realize that others might sympathize with my situation and help me out. I just thought everyone would find me a pathetic, fat pants-ripper. So I took off my cardigan (thank god for cardigans in a crisis!) and wrapped it around the FRONT of my waist. I tried to put it a little off-center, like oh oops look at that. I meant to tie it around my waist like a normal person, but I’m all helter-skelter, working hard at my job and it must have shifted. Oh well, back to file schlepping!

Then I walked around all day using my cart of files as a shield and avoiding eye contact with everyone. Nobody ever said anything to me, which I took to mean that my shifty cardigan was believable. Now I realize it was more likely a food-in-the-teeth situation. Everyone was too embarrassed for me to speak up. Poor girl, look at that gaping hole in her pants. Does she really think that sweater is doing anything to disguise it? Maybe if she wasn’t trying to wear pants that belong to her 12 year old sister she wouldn’t be showing off her bright red underwear.

So classy.

I got home that night and threw those pants away. Today I think I could deal better with such a malfunction, but back then I was so utterly embarrassed. Not only did I get rid of those pants, I threw away all the pants I was holding onto from high school. Die tiny high school pants!

I don’t want a career or a baby. Is that so wrong?

Okay that’s not entirely true. I will probably want a baby someday, and I’ll probably always have a career. But I’m not really passionate about either, and that truth doesn’t seem to fit anywhere in our society’s ideas of women. You choose a career or you choose motherhood; you give up having a family so you can become a CEO or you give up the pursuit of the top so you can you have a family. There doesn’t seem to be anything in between.

And yet, I’m somewhere in between. So I wonder… what does that make me?

If you’ve already seen it, you may have guessed that I watched “Baby Mama” over the weekend. A movie in which a thirty-something woman decides that after years of climbing the corporate ladder, she’s ready to be a mommy. This isn’t just a woman was going along in life and forgot to have a child—she intentionally did not pursue motherhood because she wanted to be a rockstar at her job. And she is! At the time of her maternal realization, she is also promoted to vice president of something or other (details allude me). But this is clearly a woman who made a choice between kids and career.

Which is the dichotomy that is almost always set up for women in the media. Movies, television, the news, even blogs. You always see something about “More women giving up careers to stay home with kids” or “Family and work: can you have it all?”

Why does it have to be one or the other? What if I don’t want either? Or what if I just don’t want either that badly?

I have a career, and I’m even working on a master’s degree so I can continue that career. But I can’t say that I have ambitions to be a big fancy anything. I don’t work because I love working, I work because I have to. And since I have to, I make sure I do a damn good job—I’m good at what I do, and I’ve excelled at every job I’ve had. Since I have to keep working for, well, ever really, I’ll continue to make sure I’m good at what I do. But don’t expect me to make sacrifices in my life for my job. Ever. No I will not give up my allotted vacation days so I can demonstrate my dedication!

Likewise, I suppose I’ll have a baby someday too. Am I dying to be a mother? Does my uterus cry out every time I see a newborn? No and no. As a matter of fact, I keep assuming the maternal urge will hit me eventually, but so far, nothing. Motherhood is in my plans, but I have no idea when and I’m certainly in no hurry. So having babies is not my ultimate goal, to say the least.

So, to refresh: I’m not a superdriven career woman and I’m not a mother-in-the-making. What am I?

It’s not so much that I’m on a crusade to change these perceptions, but just that it’s starting to wear on me. I know that I should be okay with not fitting into either mold, but the constant reminder that I should be is starting to convince me that maybe I’m just lazy. Maybe I should get off my ass and climb the ladder. Or get off my ass and make some babies. I’m not doing anything, I’m just sitting here reading lots of good books and traveling whenever I can afford it and spending time with my family (of the sibling and parent nature…not the husband and kids kind). WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME!

You see my point I’m sure. What is so wrong about wanting my life to be about interesting things: people, places, books, etc? Nothing. There’s nothing wrong and I know it. Yet I feel all this pressure, like, okay woman you’re 27 and you’re nowhere near becoming a mommy. That must mean you want to be a big shot career woman, but uh, nope. You don’t seem too interested in getting to the top very fast. So what exactly is it that you’re doing that’s worthwhile?

Um… I just started a book club. I went to New York last month. Does that count?

Sometimes I wonder if this whole grad school thing is just a result of that pressure. Like in order to keep going and getting better jobs, it makes sense to get some more education. And since I’m not doing anything very domestic, maybe I should try to be better at working for a living. So here I am, back in school. I’m not even sure what I want to do with this degree!

The worst thing is that as I get older, this is only going to get worse. I’ll be expected, more and more, to either procreate or tack a fancy title after my name. Or both. And all I’ll have done is read a few hundred books and taken a couple dozen trips. Is that so wrong?

Last night I was walking around the mall with my sisters and mom—we had been visiting my youngest sister who works at Macy’s, then hit the food court when her shift was over. Walking down the main corridor of the mall, some guy looked my sisters (only two of the three were there) up and down and said “Hey” in the most disgusting way possible. Andrea ignored him completely, and Kelli said a bored “Hi” back, and we all kept walking.

Essentially the encounter was harmless, and maybe it’s just because I don’t like nasty guys hitting on my baby sister, but I was really bothered by the exchange. I kept saying, “Gross, do guys do that to you a lot? How do you stand it?” I can’t imagine walking around and being ogled all the time. How uncomfortable.

Now I consider myself decently attractive, and even if you disagree, I’m still pretty okay with the way I look. But I’m not what you’d call “hot.” My sisters are.

I remember when Andrea and I were working and living together at Yellowstone - we’d walk into the cafeteria, and very subtley, everyone (or so it seemed) would watch her. Guys and girls. Some were checking her out, some were just noticing her, but either way it made her so uncomfortable. She didn’t like the attention and would get anxious, walk quickly through the room, eat fast and get out. One of the first times, when it was still a room full of strangers, we walked in and she looked at me anxiously and said, “I just want to leave.”

Emily hosts karaoke, and every time I go to support her (because I sure as hell don’t go to participate!) I hear drunk guys yelling disgusting things at her that they, apparently, think are compliments. And now I see that even Kelli, my baby sister, is being checked out in a disgusting, demeaning way by complete strangers who find nothing wrong with letting their eyes blatantly wander up and down a girl’s body.

I don’t get that kind of attention, and I thank god for it. I’m realizing more and more how blessed I am to be sort of average. I don’t draw attention for being “ugly” nor for being “hot,” and I’m actually quite relieved and happy about that.

There was an episode of King of Queens where Carrie suddenly feels unattractive because the men at a construction site don’t whistle and cat-call at her when she walks by. So her husband pays off the guys to demean and objectify her with lewd comments so she can feel better about herself. For the show, it’s just supposed to be comedy, but I know women in real life who feel that way. Like if they don’t get the attention of men, even the cat-call kind, then they feel ugly and unworthy. There is so much wrong with that, I won’t even go into it.

But I hope that my sisters aren’t those kind of women, I hope they feel confident in themselves despite their looks and what men think about them. The fact that all the attention makes Andrea uncomfortable, and the fact that all of them basically ignore that kind of attention instead of smiling and giggling and flirting back is a good sign at least.

Maybe I, as the oldest sister, am not as hot because it leaves me free to kick the asses of the jerks who look at or talk to my sisters the wrong way. The guys aren’t paying attention to me while they’re checking out the other three, so I can quietly come in from the side and roundhouse kick ‘em all in the face.

It’s been a whirlwind folks, busy busy busy (I wrote busty as first, which is actually sorta true too), but I wanted to tell you about my Minneapolis trip before it becomes old news. A long time ago I told Katie of willikat that I’d be out there for four days and would she like to hang out. She said she would, so we emailed for awhile, but never made official plans. At the last minute I also found out that Angie is from the same area and knows willikat. My master plan was to meet both these ladies at one big blogger night of fun, but master plans never work out. So the first thing I did when I got into Minneapolis, while still on the shuttle to my hotel, was text Katie and make lunch plans. Since I didn’t have any work obligations until the next day, I knew it might be my one and only chance to meet her.

I’ve never done an actual blogger meet up before, so I was nervous and excited at the same time. I’m not good at meeting new people, so if I hadn’t have felt like I already knew her, I probably would have made up some excuse about being busy with, um, some work thing I just found out about. But she and I have been reading each other’s blogs for awhile now (what? couple years?) and we have this joke about our ‘parallel’ lives since we have so many odd things in common. Like okay, when we’re making plans for her to pick me up outside my hotel, she tells me she’ll be driving her Elantra. I drive an Elantra. At lunch? We ordered the same thing.

Basically what I’m saying in my rambling way is that I’m a little bit in love with Katie. Whenever bloggers meet, they always report back about how amazing and sweet and spectacular the person they met was, and I’m making no exception. I mean the girl just got laid off from her job and she shows up to lunch in a cute dress and heels. I was looking a little rough in full-on travel mode, just short of a hoodie and flip-flops (see below). We had lunch and gab gab gabbed about all kinds of stuff, then we stopped at a cupcake bakery where I snapped the only two pictures of our visit.

Then she drove me around and showed me the twin cities. She even felt comfortable running an errand while we were out, that’s how tight we are already! Seriously, it was fun. And it made me want to meet more of you. So come on people, let’s work it out!

The rest of my trip was mostly work stuff. I ate well, as is usually the case on business trips, but I didn’t see much of the city. By the time I finished work obligations and dinner with colleagues each day, I was pretty exhausted and ready for bed. Which by the way, sucked. I promised I wouldn’t go into details of the suckiness, but shut up. It was a sleep number bed, which I discovered is nothing more than a glorified air mattress. I spent the first night moving up and down the number scale, unable to sleep. Number 65, try to sleep, too hard. Release some air. Number 50, try to sleep, no good. Release some air. Number 35, try to sleep, too soft. Add some air (which sounds like a jet plane by the way), no good. All. Night. Long. The second and third nights I popped some Excederin PM before bed and slept hard despite the awful mattress. But on the last night I forgot to take the meds, and if I don’t take them before I try to sleep, my body isn’t fooled. I was wide awake, watching bad tv and eating vending machine snacks until a few hours before my shuttle picked me up. I even shaved my legs in the bathtub out of pure boredom at 1:30am. They hadn’t been shaved in, I’d guess, a month or two, so it was nice and time-consuming.

Minneapolis, or what I saw of it, is actually really nice. Their public transportation system is about 823% times better than GR’s, and hello, the skyway. I walked all the way from my hotel to the Convention Center (a 15-20 minute walk) and never once went outside. All Twin Citians are probably laughing at my fascination with this, but seriously, it’s genius. I want to sleep with the skyway it’s that wonderful.

I’ve been busy since the moment I set foot on Michigan soil, but I hope to return to a normal life as soon as possible. Hope you’re still with me!

I’m supposed to be going to this Passion Party tonight. I’m guessing it’s kind of like the popular Pure Romance parties that women like to have. It’s with a fun group of people so it should be a good time, but the problem is that me and parties that specialize in sex products do not get along.

My first Pure Romance party was highly anticipated. I had heard about these parties that sell vibrators and lubricants, and I definitely wanted to be in on that. So when my sister decided to host one, I was eager to attend. I ended up buying about $70 in products, most of which have never been used. One of them, I quickly realized, though it smells and tastes like green apple, is too sticky to use. Another turned out to be effective but inconvenient. I do actually use one product, but only to spray on my chest when my boobs are sweaty in the summer. Hot, I know.

The last product I bought, the most expensive one, was a certain… tool if you will. The consultant raved about it, and my sisters convinced me it was a hundred times better than the current “tool” I owned, so I bought it. As soon as I got it home and turned it on (yes it’s the kind of tool that requires batteries), I discovered it made an unbearable buzzing sound. Not the normal whirring that these tools are supposed to make, but a high-pitched motorized sound. Kind of like a child’s remote control car. There’s no hiding its use from anyone within fifty feet of you. When I’m in the mood to use such a tool, the last thing I want is to conjure up thoughts of children’s toys. It was definitely not going to work for me.

But Pure Romance has a no return policy on such items, which I suppose makes sense, but this tool never even came near any regions that might render it “unclean” or non-refundable. So it sits in my room, in the plastic wrapping, in the original bag it came in. Fifty bucks well spent I’d say.

My next Pure Romance party was a couple weeks ago. Again, it was fun, but this time I was smart and didn’t buy anything. I think a party that’s supposed to celebrate women’s sexuality is a great idea, but when they pass around rubbery tubes that look like a woman’s mouth and nose (um, for men to use in case you didn’t get that) and play a game called “Tic Tac Toe, Give Me a Prize You Skanky Ho” it doesn’t feel very woman-friendly.

I’m not sure how Passion Parties differ from Pure Romance, but I don’t think I want to spend my money on any more products or tools that will go to waste. I should go anyway, for the social aspect, and just pretend like I’m a virgin and don’t condone sins of the flesh. Or something. But there’s so much pressure to buy something, anything, so the hostess doesn’t feel like she made that plate of cheese and crackers for nothing.

Things I’m hating right now:

Poor planning and design that results in long lines at public women’s rest rooms.

People who only manage to add “Sounds good, just let me know when!” to a group planning effort. Make a contribution people!

My itchy back.

Sprained neck muscles from poor sleeping positions.

Endless winter.

The current balance of my checking account.

Not being in Florida this week like we have been the last two years.

Things I’m loving right now:

Last night’s primary results.

Last night’s performance of RENT (except Angel, that performance was a little off).

Payday on Friday.

The fact that I don’t have class tonight because it’s Spring Break.

Blue skies and sunshine, even though it’s still bitter cold.

The free glazed donut I got at a meeting this morning. For an office environment, there really isn’t enough free junk food around here. I vote for more.

I discovered this great new way to work out. Something that, so far, is working for me. Which, if you know me, is a miracle because I HATE working out. Since capoeira totally bombed, and yoga at the gym was a joke, Robin and I had been getting together once a week (when we could) to do a 20-minute yoga video. But even that wasn’t working well because too often one of us had an excuse, and god the lady on the video, I wanted to choke her with her unitard. Things were not going well.

Then at my last hair appointment, my stylist told me about Exercise TV on Comcast’s On Demand network. Do you guys know about this? If you have Comcast and you have On Demand and you hate working out, I highly recommend this. It has hundreds of different workouts from yoga to pilates to aerobics to dancing. Even walking excercises that you do right in your living room! I swear I’m not getting money from Comcast. I actually kind of hate Comcast, but Exercise TV is awesome.

It works so well for me because most of the workouts are pretty short (I can do something for 10 minutes without getting bored, but 20 is pushing it), they’re free, it’s at my house and they’re available any time. I don’t have to drive to the gym, I don’t have to plan my life around a scheduled class, and I don’t have to get bored with the same thing all the time.

I’ve been doing these mini-workouts pretty consistently for a few weeks now, and I’m still going strong. Yesterday, for example, as soon as I got home, I did 10 minutes of yoga, a 10 minute butt and thigh workout, and a quick hand weights routine. I don’t always do that much, sometimes 10 minutes of rhythmic stretch is all I feel like doing. But overall, I can tell this is good for me. I’m not losing any weight, and I’m not getting into miraculous shape, but moving and stretching on a regular basis is definitely an improvement. Especially in the winter when what I normally tend to do is sit on my ass.

Of course, it doesn’t help that I just had two boxes of Girl Scout cookies delivered to my desk. Extra butt and thighs workouts for me!