Day 61 Farouche, That’s Me
Funniest thing I’ve heard recently was a bit of dialogue on 30 Rock last night, loosely reconstructed as follows:
“Let’s ask those ugly people, you know the ones with the paper, who change the shapes on it?”
“Oh.” Long pause. “You mean the writers?”
Yep, that’d be us. That’s what we do. We make those little shapes on the paper. And while I object to “ugly,” I’ll admit we spend a lot of time sitting around thinking, alone, often in the dark, which tends to make us pasty and out-of-shape.
They didn’t mention our social skills, I guess they ran out of time. Which brings me to our word of the day, thanks to the Vancouver Sun:
Farouche: fuh-ROOSH. Noun. Definition: marked by shyness and lack of social graces. As in, my farouche-ness makes me kind of a dud at dinner parties, but ha-HA, on paper, I’m super-cool, because I’m, like, a writer, man.
PS: I’m keepin’ on goin’ with my yoga challenge, because, well, why not? Plus, I’m making progress with my Standing-Head-to-Knee and that’s kind of a big deal. In my life.
Day 59 Why, Why, Why?
It’s one of the first questions a writer learns to ask, so I guess I came to this occupation honestly. I’m obsessed with understanding the “why?” behind stuff. Like rules, for instance. (Which made me a poor fit in my fundamentalist, conservative, evangelical family. I’ve no problem with God, never have had, but “the Bible says…” was never a good enough answer for me. It is, however, the kind of answer that pretty effectively shuts down further questioning.)
Or human behaviour, which is all about “why,” it seems to me. My kids, from infancy on, were so darn interesting. There was always so much going on inside them. I had a problem with the old school method of child-rearing that said badly-behaving children need to be smacked into line, so I always tried to look for reasons. I figured that children, like puppies, want to please the people who care for them. And that when their needs are met, they’re for the most part, pleasant small animals to be around.
But small animals have a lot of needs. Bored, lonely puppies eat furniture. Does that make them “bad?” No. It means that their owners didn’t provide them with sufficient stimulation, exercise, training, etc. Children usually don’t eat furniture, probably because most of them aren’t given the chance, but they can sure exhibit a lot of other unpleasant and destructive behaviours. And it still comes down to unmet needs.
One of my daughters, when she got hungry, was prone to blistering tantrums, that frightened her as much as they did me. Was she “bad?” No, of course not. She was hungry. And that made her scared, and angry. (In the Urban Dictionary vernacular, “hangry.”) We all know how that feels.
Yesterday, in an unexpected turn of events, I barely made it through my yoga class. I had to skip the second rep of most postures and by the end, I was just lying there, gasping, trying not to bolt for the door. Why? As I staggered out I looked at the thermometer and there was my answer: 110 degrees. I’m sorry, you Bikram nuts, but that’s just not right.
Today, despite feeling under the weather, and being a little gun-shy after yesterday, my practice was strong again. Temp: 107. There you go.
Most of the time, things aren’t so cut and dried. Usually, we’ re only vaguely aware of the reasons behind our actions, if we’re aware at all. I doubt very much that individuals get up in the morning, pour themselves a bowl of Cheerios and think, “Today I’m going to be an asshole!” But something happens to make us feel threatened or unappreciated or worthless or impotent or (fill in the blank) and we lash out, or we withdraw, or do whatever we can to build ourselves up, or to dull the pain.
I can’t remember why I started this post, probably because I’m labouring under the fuzzy weight of a persistent headache. (Denge fever? Brain tumour? Lyme Disease?!?) To outsiders – and here I mean men mostly – I probably appear to be one or more of the following: bitchy, grumpy, grouchy, selfish, mad, nursing a grudge, preoccupied, tired, in a “mood,” miserable, someone to avoid, etc.
In fact, I’m not really any of those things. In classic break-up language, “It’s not you, it’s me.” And I have a headache.
I might avoid people because I know I appear to be those other things, plus, I really don’t have the wherewithal to be chipper when I’m trying to avoid loud noises and sudden movements. But it really has nothing to do with anyone else. It’s about my pain. Today, it’s my “why.”
Is this clear? It’s nothing personal. I’ll take a little sympathy, even some TLC if it’s available, but if that’s too much, then please just leave me alone. I’m not having a headache at you.
Day 56 Great News – I’m Not Pregnant
But it certainly explains the blueberry-sized pimple percolating unicorn-like on my forehead. It’s an evil joke that puts chin hairs and zits on the same face, but I know of many women around my age that are dealing with this. Hot flashes interspersed with menstrual cramps. Mood swings and memory lapses, (which is actually a good combination when you think about it.) Insomnia, cravings, and get-the-hell-out-of-my-way rage. PMS on crack, that’s perimenopause, except it’s less predictable and it seems to last longer.
Yay, right?
I’ve been in it for the last three or four years and, between herbal supplements and bioidentical hormone replacement cream, I’m dealing. Sometimes better than others, but I haven’t killed anyone, so that’s something.
I always told my girls that the emotional ups and downs that sometimes – but not necessarily – accompany the menstrual cycle are not a “bad” thing, but rather a tool we can use to identify something that perhaps we’re unhappy about, but that three weeks out of four, we’re pretending is just fine. My daughters have all inherited the “nice” gene, I’m afraid, so I always felt this was information they needed.
We try so hard, us nice girls, to deal, to make things good, fine, okay, great, happy, smooth, peaceful, that we sometimes roll right over those aspects of our life that aren’t quite as they should be. We don’t ask for help when we need it; we don’t say when we’re disappointed; we agree to things when we really want to argue. PMS rips off the veil, forcing us to see what’s real, instead of what’s easiest.
So, yeah, now that I seem to be in a permanent veil-lifted stage, the lessons I taught my girls are coming home to roost. I might look a little more selfish, crabby, argumentative, and a little less compliant and obliging. What I am definitely more of these days is honest. And I think that’s the real task of mid-life.
It comes circling back to that central question: what do I really want? For myself, not anyone else, just me?
Because as my primarily-mother years wane, I’m back to me, myself, a woman I need to get to know all over again.