So it seems I'm kinda bad at smoking. I tried, I really did, but I just don't get it. Every time I tried to take a drag the smoke got in my eyes and made them water. Also, I have no idea how to properly inhale so I just puff at it. When I did try to inhale it only served to make me cough. So picture me on my patio smoking, cat staring up at me confusedly, eyes watering, coughing and ashing on myself because I kept forgetting to flick the cigarette. I still have several left, but I just don't know that it's worth it. Still, I said I would try so I guess I have to give it a really good go to be fair to the experiment.
Another issue I have with smoking is that in order for it to help me lose weight it means that when I am hungry I should reach for a cigarette instead. This seems simple enough except I don't want a cigarette when I'm hungry. I want vegan mashed potatoes or organic PB and jelly on a brown rice cake. What the hell is smoking supposed to do for my hunger? It doesn't make sense. A cigarette takes a few minutes at most to smoke, but a huge bowl of stir-fried veggies and marinated tempeh will take me 30 minutes to properly enjoy, it's really just no contest. Food is going to win every damn time.
Also, much to my surprise, no one finds smoking appealing. Everyone I have told about trying to take up the habit has either emphatically tried to convince me to abort the project (usually while puffing away at their Marlboro or Camel) or else told me smoking is not sexy and very unappealing. Damn. What's a self-destructing girl to do? Oh wait, I know: whiskey and drunk texting work every time. I know it's stupid. I know I'm going to say things I shouldn't and be way more honest than is prudent, but I'm going to do it anyway. I ran four miles today and did 75 minutes of incredibly challenging yoga. Then, I sat in the hot tub at home for a while and drank. I am now exhausted, dehydrated, a bit lonely and ready to cause some trouble . . . most likely for myself.
We're not all composed, well-behaved creatures. Some of us are still chugging along trying to find our place even at 37. I don't know who I am going to turn out to be or how the road getting there will work out, but I do know that right now I'm going on gut instinct alone and that's going to have to be enough. Smoking, drinking, swearing, probably fighting will all have their part to play, but more than anything I have sheer force of will because I am nothing if not perpetually in motion. I might be going the wrong direction, but I'm always trying to get somewhere. Tonight I may only find the toilet bowl, but one day maybe my luck will change or maybe not. It won't stop me from moving, or rather stumbling, forward.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Bottom of the Bucket List
Everyone seems to have some sort of a bucket list. A laundry list of wonderful, adventurous things they want to do or places they want to see before they die. Well, I have one too and it is full of the requisite wonders and pipe dreams. That one is fine, but definitely not making my life any better. So let's make a new list. A list of bottom feeder activities that people do not and should not aspire to, but that might turn things around for me in opposite world. Let's list the top things that no one in their right mind would normally aspire to accomplish or try. Let's create a "bottom of the bucket" list.
Number one on my list is to take up smoking. I've been toying with it a while. For one thing, I'd love to lose five pounds and if I can replace half the food I shove in my face with fags (I suppose both the British and the American translation applies here) then maybe that will be possible. For another, smoking is cool. I don't care what you say. Any director who has ever lit a black and white film from the 40's knows smoking can instantly transform a scene and make anyone look cool. Brando, Hepburn (both Kate and Audrey), and Bogie I want to be you and make love to you simultaneously whenever I watch you smoke in a film.
I know people will gripe about cancer and addiction, well let me assure you I am not worried. I doubt I will ever smoke enough to cause legitimate concern for cancer. For that matter, I could just as easily develop cancer from the artificial sweetener in my beloved Diet Coke. Cancer sucks. I've lost family members to it, I have friends currently suffering from it, but lung cancer is probably the least of my worries at this point. As for the addiction factor, I'm not really a substance addiction type person. I've been addicted to a few people, as a teen I was definitely addicted to drama, no doubt I am addicted to mashed potatoes and good vegan chocolate and more than once in my life I've worried that I am addicted to sex, but cigarettes? Nope. Not even a blip on the map.
I am a lifelong non-smoker, but that does not mean I've never smoked before. I enjoy it. I enjoy the act of lighting up, of holding it, cocking my head to the side to take a drag and turning away slightly from whomever I'm speaking with to blow it out. I love the act. I kind of hate the taste and the staining of teeth and fingernails. Smoking used to be elegant and associated with the privileged class. These days it's more trailer than transforming. Today, A-list actresses do not publicly promote the fact that they smoke. Smoking is more a dirty little secret than a status symbol, so say goodbye to the Hepburn-esque glamour of a cigarette holder or blue blood party with gold and silver cigarette cases, these days a smoking habit is more likely accompanied by a wife beater tank.
Today, as soon as I finish this blog and the bottle of vinho verde I am currently savoring on the patio of my favorite local market/bar I am buying my first pack of smokes. Despite having bummed them in the past, I've never purchased a cigarette on my own. American Spirit makes a line of organic fags and also light menthols which seem appealing. I like menthols. It's a smoke and a breath mint in one. I do so appreciate a multi-tasker. The Common Market, which is a supremely awesome corner market that offers cash and carry beer and wine or a place to drink it in-house, a deli, and other normal corner store conveniences, sells single cigarettes "so you don't have to commit" I was told by the semi-hot chick that works here. I am going to shop the single cigarette aisle like it's my job and hopefully one of my finds will make an impression.
Smoke 'em if you've got 'em and if you don't, go fucking buy some. Everyone knows smoking is cool.
Number one on my list is to take up smoking. I've been toying with it a while. For one thing, I'd love to lose five pounds and if I can replace half the food I shove in my face with fags (I suppose both the British and the American translation applies here) then maybe that will be possible. For another, smoking is cool. I don't care what you say. Any director who has ever lit a black and white film from the 40's knows smoking can instantly transform a scene and make anyone look cool. Brando, Hepburn (both Kate and Audrey), and Bogie I want to be you and make love to you simultaneously whenever I watch you smoke in a film.
I know people will gripe about cancer and addiction, well let me assure you I am not worried. I doubt I will ever smoke enough to cause legitimate concern for cancer. For that matter, I could just as easily develop cancer from the artificial sweetener in my beloved Diet Coke. Cancer sucks. I've lost family members to it, I have friends currently suffering from it, but lung cancer is probably the least of my worries at this point. As for the addiction factor, I'm not really a substance addiction type person. I've been addicted to a few people, as a teen I was definitely addicted to drama, no doubt I am addicted to mashed potatoes and good vegan chocolate and more than once in my life I've worried that I am addicted to sex, but cigarettes? Nope. Not even a blip on the map.
I am a lifelong non-smoker, but that does not mean I've never smoked before. I enjoy it. I enjoy the act of lighting up, of holding it, cocking my head to the side to take a drag and turning away slightly from whomever I'm speaking with to blow it out. I love the act. I kind of hate the taste and the staining of teeth and fingernails. Smoking used to be elegant and associated with the privileged class. These days it's more trailer than transforming. Today, A-list actresses do not publicly promote the fact that they smoke. Smoking is more a dirty little secret than a status symbol, so say goodbye to the Hepburn-esque glamour of a cigarette holder or blue blood party with gold and silver cigarette cases, these days a smoking habit is more likely accompanied by a wife beater tank.
Today, as soon as I finish this blog and the bottle of vinho verde I am currently savoring on the patio of my favorite local market/bar I am buying my first pack of smokes. Despite having bummed them in the past, I've never purchased a cigarette on my own. American Spirit makes a line of organic fags and also light menthols which seem appealing. I like menthols. It's a smoke and a breath mint in one. I do so appreciate a multi-tasker. The Common Market, which is a supremely awesome corner market that offers cash and carry beer and wine or a place to drink it in-house, a deli, and other normal corner store conveniences, sells single cigarettes "so you don't have to commit" I was told by the semi-hot chick that works here. I am going to shop the single cigarette aisle like it's my job and hopefully one of my finds will make an impression.
Smoke 'em if you've got 'em and if you don't, go fucking buy some. Everyone knows smoking is cool.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Day One: Staring Down the Toilet of My Life
I am on day three of a nasty headache. I've tried the chiropractor, massage, masturbation, self-medicating, sleeping pills, ice packs, heat therapy, and comfort food. Nothing is working. So, on the eve of starting a new job as a server in a pub (yes, at 37 with a useless degree in English Lit and soon to start grad school this is the best I can do) I've decided there is nothing left but to try the worst possible option: I'm going to get stinking drunk.
Drink one:
First drink is an okay pinot grigio. It goes down easily enough, tasting mostly of water and fruit. I am simultaneously creating this blog at the bar of my favorite dive while an enthusiastic guy next to me will not stop talking. He mentions jokingly that I will likely want to punch him in the face at some point which I laughingly deny.
Upon completion of drink one, the guy beside me has not shut up despite my polite requests that he leave me be to drink and write. I have tried being nice, joking, and sarcasm; Now I am onto the blatantly rude track. He's not getting it. "Remember how we joked about me wanting to punch you in the face," I say, "well I'm nearly there." He laughs and continues talking. I pick up my laptop, wine and purse and move around the bar to the other side, far away from said jackass. Two minutes later my wine glass is magically refilled with compliments from my previous seatmate. Now I feel bad, but only briefly.
Drink Two:
Given my current financial circumstances of not being gainfully employed I can't really afford to go out drinking so tonight's experiment is partially to see if I can get drunk funded by the generosity of others. This second glass of wine tastes worse than the first, but since it's free I'm drinking sans complaints.
Taking longer than expected to go down. This might be due to the fact that I have not eaten so am a bit buzzed, an effect that is likely exacerbated by the antihistamine I took an hour ago to combat the headache. Right now, I'm slightly nauseous, slightly buzzed. Looking forward to drink three . . . wait, how the hell am I getting home? Fuck.
Drink three:
Switching to beer. I seriously want a whiskey, but am mindful of the fact that I have a headache and have to work at a busy bar tomorrow night. Still, not thrilled that my first day at willful self-destruction is actually being tempered with self-control. Then again, I have years of experience with the headaches and after three days of pain another seems even too far over the edge for me. Maybe I'm not ready for full-on downward spiral. A cold Pacifico in hand, I tilt it back and let go.
An interesting thing about being at a bar with a laptop is that it is impetus for many discussions with other bar patrons. One such gentleman, a tall ginger in an ill fitting kelly green polo shirt and conservatively side-parted hair calls me a coward for pursuing the downward spiral aspect. A fresh perspective. Is giving up on your life and pursuit of success and happiness a coward's path? It seems the opposite to me. I've never found quitting to be all that easy, it requires real action as opposed to staying the course and doing the expected. I appreciate the input of a stranger and told him so with one finger. Ginger out.
Drink four:
After being called a coward and failing miserably at having any more of my drinks bought by the locals, I retire to the living room where a lovely single malt awaits. My head still hurts, my house is a mess and the cats are insistently meowing. Still, I will persevere and drink my scotch until I pass out. Not an eventful first night, but it is a starting point. I'm either a coward or the pioneer of a new type self-destruction I tell the cats. This could be brilliant. I'm getting a bad rap for trying something new. People are so short-sighted.
Alas, drink four is a bust. I'm already drunk and losing the battle against an overwhelming urge for pizza. The grocery supplies microwaveable pizzas and two danish. None of these are vegan and yet it does not stop me. Driving home drunker than I should be after three drinks and way beyond the legal limit I devour the first danish in the car, licking cheese filling and sickenly sweet glaze off my fingers. I eat the rest, settle on the sofa and suddenly know it's all coming back up. It's not the first time I've thrown up after drinking, it is after all, the savior of many almost hangovers. Though, given my food intake this is also now a foray into bulimia. On one hand it is the ultimate in self-destruction, on the other, the definition of self-preservation. I am drinking, eating, vomiting and yet avoiding a hangover, weight gain, and vegan remorse. It all evens out, but there are no winners.
It's late now and the first day is a bust. I feel no wiser, no worse, no better. Just the same girl only out some cash and feeling a failure for an experiment gone bust. Then again, maybe that's a win. If the goal is self-destruction and the path leads to failure . . . well, maybe it's a success?
My head still hurts, more meds and its bed for me. Day one, over and done.
Drink one:
First drink is an okay pinot grigio. It goes down easily enough, tasting mostly of water and fruit. I am simultaneously creating this blog at the bar of my favorite dive while an enthusiastic guy next to me will not stop talking. He mentions jokingly that I will likely want to punch him in the face at some point which I laughingly deny.
Upon completion of drink one, the guy beside me has not shut up despite my polite requests that he leave me be to drink and write. I have tried being nice, joking, and sarcasm; Now I am onto the blatantly rude track. He's not getting it. "Remember how we joked about me wanting to punch you in the face," I say, "well I'm nearly there." He laughs and continues talking. I pick up my laptop, wine and purse and move around the bar to the other side, far away from said jackass. Two minutes later my wine glass is magically refilled with compliments from my previous seatmate. Now I feel bad, but only briefly.
Drink Two:
Given my current financial circumstances of not being gainfully employed I can't really afford to go out drinking so tonight's experiment is partially to see if I can get drunk funded by the generosity of others. This second glass of wine tastes worse than the first, but since it's free I'm drinking sans complaints.
Taking longer than expected to go down. This might be due to the fact that I have not eaten so am a bit buzzed, an effect that is likely exacerbated by the antihistamine I took an hour ago to combat the headache. Right now, I'm slightly nauseous, slightly buzzed. Looking forward to drink three . . . wait, how the hell am I getting home? Fuck.
Drink three:
Switching to beer. I seriously want a whiskey, but am mindful of the fact that I have a headache and have to work at a busy bar tomorrow night. Still, not thrilled that my first day at willful self-destruction is actually being tempered with self-control. Then again, I have years of experience with the headaches and after three days of pain another seems even too far over the edge for me. Maybe I'm not ready for full-on downward spiral. A cold Pacifico in hand, I tilt it back and let go.
An interesting thing about being at a bar with a laptop is that it is impetus for many discussions with other bar patrons. One such gentleman, a tall ginger in an ill fitting kelly green polo shirt and conservatively side-parted hair calls me a coward for pursuing the downward spiral aspect. A fresh perspective. Is giving up on your life and pursuit of success and happiness a coward's path? It seems the opposite to me. I've never found quitting to be all that easy, it requires real action as opposed to staying the course and doing the expected. I appreciate the input of a stranger and told him so with one finger. Ginger out.
Drink four:
After being called a coward and failing miserably at having any more of my drinks bought by the locals, I retire to the living room where a lovely single malt awaits. My head still hurts, my house is a mess and the cats are insistently meowing. Still, I will persevere and drink my scotch until I pass out. Not an eventful first night, but it is a starting point. I'm either a coward or the pioneer of a new type self-destruction I tell the cats. This could be brilliant. I'm getting a bad rap for trying something new. People are so short-sighted.
Alas, drink four is a bust. I'm already drunk and losing the battle against an overwhelming urge for pizza. The grocery supplies microwaveable pizzas and two danish. None of these are vegan and yet it does not stop me. Driving home drunker than I should be after three drinks and way beyond the legal limit I devour the first danish in the car, licking cheese filling and sickenly sweet glaze off my fingers. I eat the rest, settle on the sofa and suddenly know it's all coming back up. It's not the first time I've thrown up after drinking, it is after all, the savior of many almost hangovers. Though, given my food intake this is also now a foray into bulimia. On one hand it is the ultimate in self-destruction, on the other, the definition of self-preservation. I am drinking, eating, vomiting and yet avoiding a hangover, weight gain, and vegan remorse. It all evens out, but there are no winners.
It's late now and the first day is a bust. I feel no wiser, no worse, no better. Just the same girl only out some cash and feeling a failure for an experiment gone bust. Then again, maybe that's a win. If the goal is self-destruction and the path leads to failure . . . well, maybe it's a success?
My head still hurts, more meds and its bed for me. Day one, over and done.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Time to Take the Leap
Last year I conducted an online blogging experiment. I wrote every day for an entire year about whatever was on my mind or happening in my life. It was a sort of public journal intended to hold me accountable for the status of my life and the choices I've made. Unfortunately, what I discovered at the end of the experiment was quite different than what I intended to find out. In the end, my 365 day journey taught me that I am a self-indulgent and self-preserving bitch and sadly, I'm not all that willing to change. It was a rough year all around. I was dealing with marital problems, another move to a new city, and the deployment of my husband to Iraq. Every day was a balance of fear, dread, panic, and denial.
Whatever choices I made turned out to be the wrong ones and life today is somewhere between a giant step backward and a suicidal leap. I have decided that my intended pursuit of the righteous and happy path ended in misery so this time around I'm following the low road in the hopes that it will unintentionally raise me up where I want to be. It's the law of opposites or the George Costanza theory, whichever you prefer. So today makes the beginning of a new 365 days, a year of wrong choices, purposeful self-destruction, and a spectacular downward spiral. This is Ame: Self-Destructed and it is time to make that final, disastrous leap from the ledge and see if I can, in fact, learn to fly.
Whatever choices I made turned out to be the wrong ones and life today is somewhere between a giant step backward and a suicidal leap. I have decided that my intended pursuit of the righteous and happy path ended in misery so this time around I'm following the low road in the hopes that it will unintentionally raise me up where I want to be. It's the law of opposites or the George Costanza theory, whichever you prefer. So today makes the beginning of a new 365 days, a year of wrong choices, purposeful self-destruction, and a spectacular downward spiral. This is Ame: Self-Destructed and it is time to make that final, disastrous leap from the ledge and see if I can, in fact, learn to fly.
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