Why my imaginary boyfriend is better than yours

There is no theme here. Do not try to find a theme.
~~~
a. On the way home from yoga last night I rolled up on a stoplight and became distracted by an advertisement on the side of a bus turning left in front of me. This is what it looked like:

You would be distracted by this too, right, if it was five feet high and in your face? As I stared at it I continued to roll towards the crosswalk and started to turn right. As I did so I nearly jumped out of my skin when I realized that there was a pedestrian in the crosswalk that I hadn't seen, because I had  been so distracted by the pedestrian safety sign on the side of the bus. This is a true story.

b. A few minutes later at a different intersection, another pedestrian walked right in front of my car against the light, so luckily I was on alert this time. He was completely out of it, barefoot, and his face was bleeding, not as if he had had an accident or been in a fight, but as if he had scratched it so much that it bled, and I thought, why does anyone still do meth anymore? Because they're addicted, right, but I mean, why did they do it the first time? Is there anyone left on earth who still thinks this might be a good idea? It is not a good idea.

~~~TOPIC CHANGE~~~

2. Laying in bed last night not sleeping I let my mind wander until I invented an awesome dude who was super into me, complete with people I actually know in real life having introduced us, I guess so it would seem more realistic to the part of my brain that was not in on the fantasy. And guess what? That shit totally worked! I was as giddy as if it had actually happened. Even this morning as I was driving to work (I guess there is a theme?) I was still super cheerful and smiley, imagining new scenarios for us wherein he would come visit for the weekend, because of course it's a long-distance relationship, because apparently even in my wildest fantasies I can't just meet a nice dude who lives in the tri-state area. So I guess imaginary boyfriends is where I am right now.

Also, apparently I spend a lot of time in the car?

Why I stopped going to therapy

32 was the year I finally started going to therapy. It was also the year that I quit therapy. (Since I turned 33 all of six days ago, I can say this with an air of detached gravity that comes from being older and marginally wiser.) So, now that you know the end of that story, let's start at the beginning. 

I wanted to get at some unresolved issues, and get at them my therapist did, in the manner of a pitchfork churning up long buried muck and slime and spreading it all out to air in the sun. Meanwhile I'm on the sidelines yelling, "Hey, I just cleaned that!" Being the writer/neurotic (redundant?) that I am, I thought I would jot down some brief notes after each session, hoping that over time I would begin to see some kind of progress. However, being the well-intentioned but often-lacking-in-follow-through kind of person that I also am, this lasted all of one (1) session. My thoughts following my very first therapy session ever (carefully recorded in an e-mail draft) read as follows:  

So, when do I start feeling better? Not so sure about this. Felt like I was drowning, and instead of throwing a life preserver she just watched, occasionally murmuring, "So, tell me how drowning feels." Also would like to know when we get to the part where she tells me how to fix myself instead of just nodding sympathetically. Sympathetic nodding is nice but not particularly helpful. 

And here is the part where you tell me, "Silly! Therapists don't tell you how to 'fix yourself'; they help you figure out how to do it yourself!" And yes, yes, I am well aware of that, but I was hoping for something a bit more...guided. Unfortunately, even after four months, it became clear that sympathetic nodding and boomerang questions were all I would ever get. Which is all fine and good, I suppose (her theory is that just talking about things can sometimes make the issues disappear--poof), but after four months of churning up and then re-burying the muck every week, I realized that, hmm, I didn't have so much to talk about, anymore. "Actually, I feel kind of...fine" only gets you so far in an hour-long therapy session, unfortunately, and so, prodded by my therapist, I would have to find some new muck to rake, and it's funny how after that, suddenly I wasn't feeling so fine anymore. This went on for weeks. I would go in even-keel, feeling that things were overall good, and leave burdened by the weight of all the past awfulness we had dredged up. All the pain and hurt feelings and disappointment of three decades past, condensed into a sixty-minute (or sometimes more!) session. Not exactly how I wanted to spend my lunch hour. After that I would bounce back and things would be good again, until the next week. Finally I realized, hey, if I feel pretty much ok until I start dredging up past shit, maybe I should...stop dredging up past shit? Like, hey genius, if it hurts when you poke it, maybe...give the poking a rest for a while? Now that I'm writing this down I realize it sounds kind of unhealthy and avoidant, but honestly, it wasn't like that at all. I had addressed the issues and discussed them, at length, and now I was ready to leave them alone for a while. Possibly forever. At least leave the muck buried deep down where I wouldn't have to see it and think about it anymore. Again, I realize that maybe this sounds the opposite of healthy, but honestly, I'm tired of wallowing around in muck; I want to run naked in the rain. (Metaphorically speaking?)

And so I realized it was time to break up with my therapist, which led to a not insignificant amount of stress. As much as I hate getting broken up with, I also hate breaking up with someone; I will move to a different country to avoid having to break up with someone. I was hoping to take the coward's way out and do it over the phone (ok, voicemail), but, like the professional she is, she made me face my fears and break up with her face to face. Which led to (seriously) the most awkward "it's not you, it's me" conversation ever. (She actually asked, "Was it something I said?") I reassured her (over and over), that it had nothing to do with her, and while I very much appreciated her time and expertise, lately our weekly sessions had been creating some unwanted stress in my life, both financial and otherwise. I pleaded poor and said it was hard for me to get away from work in the middle of the day, and even harder to get back into a groove at work after an emotionally wracking session. All of these things were true, and I stuck to that explanation, repeating it various different ways for her approval. She clearly didn't think I was ready to "graduate" from therapy, but finally said that she understood my reasons and wished me well. I left feeling lighter than I had in a long time.

And maybe it's because it's spring, with flowers blooming everywhere and summer on the horizon, but ever since then, I've been feeling pretty good. Like I tried to tell my therapist, I'm actually pretty...fine. I'm doing just fine. Thanks. 

And that's the story of how in my 32nd year, I started going to therapy, and then quit therapy. Feel free to chime in in the comments if you feel moved to share your own experiences.   

Kitty says cuddle therapy works too

Why this post is the pits

I interrupt this sparse posting schedule of nothing-much-going-on with something I hardly ever do: a health & beauty post. Wait wait wait, there's more: it's a DIY health & beauty post. I know, I know, what's next? A Pinterest board? (Never!) But today I wanted to talk to you about an issue that is near to my heart. And actually a bit to the left of my heart...and to the right. That's right, I'm talking about my pits. Wait, come back, I'm really talking about deodorant. We all use it, right? We all have our favorite go-to stuff, decided on after a long period of trial and error, and as long as it's doing the job we don't really think about it much.

Recently I stumbled across a recipe for homemade coconut oil deodorant, and while normally this wouldn't be something I would be interested in trying, the comments on the post, and other similar posts I found, were all very encouraging. To hear them tell it, this stuff was nothing short of miraculous. Not to mention healthier for you, cheaper, blah blah blah. But still, I remained skeptical. It couldn't possibly work as well as real deodorant, could it? As it happened, I had a jar of Trader Joe's coconut oil in my cabinet, and my curiosity got the better of me. At this point, I went all in and ordered arrowroot powder and grapefruit essential oil from Amazon, as well as some organic beeswax, which I thought it might need for texture (but it turns out it didn't). Baking soda and corn starch I already had on hand, so as soon as my shipment arrived I got a-mixin'. 

Now here's where it gets interesting. Coconut oil is a solid in temperatures under 76 degrees, and liquid above that. Since my apartment is hot hot hot, summer or winter (not my choice, just the way it is), my coconut oil is nearly always in liquid form. Hence the reason I bought the beeswax; I thought without it the resulting mixture might be too "liquidy." It turns out that once you get all the baking soda, arrowroot powder and cornstarch mixed in, though, the texture is thick like frosting, and not runny like liquid. However, since I mixed it up on Sunday, there has been a bit of a cold snap here, and since the heat in the building has already been turned off, my apartment finally cooled down a bit. And my coconut oil is solid! So my homemade deodorant, which was a mushy paste on Sunday, is now hard. Which is fine--I just dig out a small piece with my thumbnail and rub it in--it softens with the heat of my skin.

"Frozen" solid

 But I'm getting ahead of myself. Liquid, solid, who cares? you're saying. Does it actually work? Right. First I need to tell you that before this experiment I was at a crossroads with my current deodorant. Wait, let me back up. A bit of my deodorant history: as soon as clinical strength deodorant came on the market a few years back, I was totally on board. Gimme the hard stuff. This is all I will need until the end of time, thank you. Then my sister came to visit once and brought some fancy shmancy Kiehl's deodorant with her. 

And I tried it, and I liked it. I even, actually, liked it more than the clinical strength stuff I had been using. It was unscented and didn't dry out my skin like the other stuff, and I felt that somehow it was more "natural" (which is totally a lie, since it has just as much bad-for-you aluminum than any other storebought deodorant). And ever since then I have been shelling out an ungodly amount of money for the stuff. I don't even want to tell you what I've been paying for it, but ok, I will. It's $19.50 for a 2.5 oz. tube. Plus shipping! I know. But it lasts me about three months or more, so it's really not that bad, right? However, lately I haven't been completely happy with it. It seemed to not be working as well as it once had, or maybe it had never actually worked that well and I was blinded by marketing and natural fruit extracts. Anyway, by the end of the day, every day, hot yoga class or no, I was feeling...ok, smelling...not so fresh. Not terrible, but also not like nothing. And I wanted to smell like nothing. And if there was something I could make with ingredients from my kitchen, I was willing to give it a try. Even though I was sure it definitely couldn't work. (I mean, how could it possibly?) Here are my findings.

Day one: Mixed up a first batch, with beeswax. Moment of truth: slathered it on. Horror and revulsion. It looked like my armpits were made of wax, and they were melting. The stuff wouldn't rub in and it just looked...awful. Decided it must be the beeswax. Mixed up a second batch without it. Second verse: same as the first. Almost chucked the whole thing in the trash in a fit of rage, but decided to check with Professor Google first. Determined that I had been using waaaayyyyyyy too much. Scrubbed it all off and started over, this time using a dab about the size of a pea and rubbing it all in until it disappeared. Oh. Much better. I could deal with this. Laid about the (blessedly cool) house all day in a mostly hungover stupor. Sniff test: no smell to speak of, but then again, I had barely moved at all. Not a good day to judge.

One with beeswax, and one with none (of your)

Day two: The ultimate test--a full day at the office, followed by a vigorous 80-minute yoga flow in a 90-degree room. I came home tired and, ahem, glowing (ladies glow, ya know) and prepared for the moment of truth. Sniff test: nothing. Nothing, not even a hint of a whiff of a smell! I could have been smelling my wrist, or my elbow, or a blank sheet of paper. Incredible!

Day three: Just in case the first two days were a fluke. I skipped yoga and went to a French meetup after work instead. I was drinking wine and trying hard to appear friendly and social, so I already had a bit of a warm flush going. Not to mention the fact that also in attendance was a guy who had asked me out on a couple dates a year ago, and then when I asked him out on a third date, he said no. So yeah, there was a (teensy) bit of nervous sweating going on. Forget hot yoga--this was the ultimate test. Once again I came home, stripped down, and took a good, long sniff. Again, there was nothing. I know, I can hardly believe it myself. 

So far the only downsides, as I see it, are a small amount of powdery white residue left on the underarm area of my shirt when I take it off (from the baking soda, etc.), but it brushes off easily, and it's not visible from the outside. Also, some people in the comments mentioned dark spots in the underarm area of their shirts from the oil, and that potentially those dark spots might not come out in the wash. But other people said they didn't have that problem at all. I'm still waiting and seeing on this one. I think it might depend on the shirt. With knits I've had no problem. The other day I wore a silky fabric in a dark magenta color, and when I took it off I thought there might be slightly darkish circles under the arms? But it definitely wasn't very noticeable, and I am going to wait until the shirt goes through the wash to see what happens. If it turns out that it does stain, then I could see how that would be a definite deterrent. But so far I am nothing but enamored. How could I not be? It's cheaper than regular deodorant. It's more effective than regular deodorant. And it doesn't contain potentially cancer-causing ingredients!  I am not saying I am going to go out and start making my own homemade toothpaste, shampoo, and household cleaning products (I don't think?), but after this I feel like I've inadvertently stumbled upon the internet's cleanest dirty little secret. Seriously. You should try this stuff.

Why to everything, turn, turn, turn

I have lost my blogging mojo. The last time I blogged was March 15, and before that it was February 15, so now for the sake of symmetry I feel like I should wait until April 15 to post this (but I won't). Yes, the only things you can be sure of in life are death, taxes, and that I am still here. Oh yes, I am still here. Awaiting the inevitable outcry--"Are you giving up on blogging?!?!" Alas, so far that particular question has only been raised by the voice in my own head. The answer? No. Maybe. No. Maybe? (It goes on and on like this forever.) The realization that even if I decide that I'm not giving up on blogging, but then I never post anything again, isn't the end result kind of the same thing? (Not with a bang but a whimper, etc.)

Where we stand is this: after so many years in flux, I am now firmly entrenched in the "real life" I have spent so long simultaneously avoiding and pursuing. I have a real job that is mostly not that bad, except when it is, which is not terribly often. I have a quirky boss with a good heart, a devious and slightly scary coworker, and the perfect lunchtime walking/venting buddy. I have a mountain of debt that is actually growing instead of shrinking, due to not being able to keep up with the interest. I learned from my online real estate course that this is known as "negative amortization." I am taking a real estate course because my boss wants me to get my real estate license and sell his properties. He says that soon my life will change, and once I have my license I will have a different work schedule, will make more money. That all sounds good to me, but it's hard to imagine a different sort of future when everything around here is still so very much the same. 

I still have a cat with downy soft fur, who is never happier then when curled in a ball on my (or the nearest available) lap. (Though what she lacks in loyalty she makes up for in cuteness.) I still have a yoga membership, and slightly more toned muscles than I had nine months ago. I have miles to go before I will ever be able to put a foot behind my head, but only a few more inches to go before successfully kicking up into a handstand. I have months of warm (ok, let's face it, swampy hot) weather in front of me. The transition to summer weather this week was particularly shocking in comparison to last week, when I was walking at lunchtime and shivering in a winter coat. The temps jumped from the 40s to the 80s in a mere matter of days, seemingly skipping springtime altogether. Sometimes life is the same way. Nothing happens, and then suddenly everything happens, all at once. It's been winter for so long. All this time I've been waiting for spring, but soon, if I'm patient, maybe it will be summer. 

Why I want to grow old together

If you ever want a good shock, stumble unexpectedly across a picture of yourself from six or seven years ago. Marvel at your smooth skin, the pleasing fullness of your features, and try to put your finger on what, exactly, was there that isn't there now. Or what wasn't that is. Convince yourself that you haven't changed, not really. Tell yourself that you will never get old. Now look again. Really look. What is it? What is it?

When I was young and imagined growing old, I always imagined I would have someone else growing old with me. -Will you still love me when I'm old? -I will still love you when you're old. -Will you still love me when I turn gray? -I will still love you when you turn gray. -What if I get fat? [longer pause] -I will still love you if you get fat. I imagined teasing, gifting nosehair trimmers at Christmas and laughing about it, holding hands on front porches in rocking chairs, side-by-side bathtubs on the goddamn beach. When you are in your twenties and getting old is pretty much the worst thing you can think of, growing old together is your life preserver. Getting old sucks, but growing old together is the stuff marriage proposals and pharmaceutical commercials are made of. In my twenties, this is the future I imagined. In my moments of doubt I would allow myself to wonder, What if he doesn't love me when I get old? What if he trades me in for a younger model? But never, not even in my wildest what-if scenarios, did I imagine that there wouldn't be a he at all. (Enough with the footprints, oh Lord, but can you please explain why there's only one bathtub on the goddamn beach?)

And perhaps that is what I am seeing reflected in those old pictures that look like me but also not like me. A quiet confidence, a belief that my life was on an ever-increasing upward trajectory, that things can only get better from here. The unknown was exciting. [A brief aside to tell you that I am trying really hard not to punctuate every line with a lyric from Les Mis right now. Then I was young and unafraaaaiiiiid... Yeah. I dreamed a dream.] 

But I am fine. Everything is fine. How are you? Are you fine or not fine, or good or maybe great? I miss blogging but I feel like I have nothing to say, and when I do try to write something it comes out like this, and quiet desperation is not exactly the "brand" I wish to convey. If I had something funny or fun or exciting to tell you I would, believe me. But don't give up on me yet, ok?