1 Up, Dude. 1 Up.

I am able to write this post tonight because of The Bloggess. Because she is a fucking WARRIOR, People. Because her sometimes painful honesty regarding her depression, anxiety, and self-harming paved the way for me.

Even though it isn't diagnosed, I don't think anyone who knows me in person or who has been reading awhile will dispute that I've got an anxiety disorder.

Free-floating anxiety specifically.

Acr0nym has stated he believes I've got mild agoraphobia. Not that I'm house-bound or anything but sometimes my anxiety is bad enough that it controls what I will do socially. Sometimes, when the anxiety is particularly bad, I don't want to leave the house...but I will. I make myself.

You may be wondering why, even though I know I'm full to piping hot brimming with anxiety, I continue to go undiagnosed and untreated. After all, this is the 21st century and there are pills for that.

The obvious reason is that I don't want to experience better living through chemistry. That sounds ridiculous given that I've encouraged many friends to explore medicinal options for whatever ails them. I've supported and cheered on family members for their own willingness to try a variety of prescription medications for their mental problems.

But for me?

No. Thanks.

I have some excellent natural coping mechanisms for my anxiety...exercise (if that plantar fasciitis would ever go away), meditation, deep breathing...wine if it comes to that.

I also have Lex who, during the worst of it, talks to me. He strips away the layers when I'm hyperventilating - picks up each dust-bunny encrusted layer, holds it up to me as though it's a dirty sock he's picked up off the floor, and asks, "What's this one? Where did it come from? Does it apply?" He does that until I'm soul bare and we can look at whatever is provoking the attack rationally...together. It's rarely much of anything except my own neuroses. And he's right there with me, looking at the situation, evaluating it, and telling me, gently, "It's OK. You're only a little crazy. It's OK. Breathe. It won't hurt...well, maybe a little, but I'm here."

Anyway!

Yeah, so, you know how I have this imminent first date? It's coming up rapidly. And, while we were making arrangements for said date to be held at a restaurant, I started to feel stupid anxious about something so trivial you sane people - or, at least, those of you without anxiety - couldn't even begin to understand.

I started to feel anxious about where, in proximity to the restaurant, we are going to meet. Keep in mind, this is someone I know - have known for years - in real life, face to face.

See, normal people just say, "Hey! Let's meet at Such and Such 'round 2" and y'all meet without further arrangement and it's excellent fun.

Me?

It goes a little something like this: "Should I go in? Should I wait outside? What if he's already inside? What if he's not and HE waits outside while I'm inside?" 


And pretty soon I'm spinning out of control, ready to just pack it in and rush home to my pajama pants and a nonplussed cat.

So...we're making arrangements. And I'm afraid to say much of anything beyond, "Yeah, let's meet at Such and Such 'round 2". Except...I can already feel the anxiety swirling. "What if I'm there early and I don't know if he's already here waiting for me inside?" etc, so forth, ad nauseum.

Finally, I decide to ask if we can be more specific.

And then? A miracle happens. I decide to tell him why I need him to be specific. Because I'm anxious...because I'll worry I'm doing it wrong...because, fine, I'm crazy.

And you know what?

He said, "Just text or call me when you're near and I will be waiting right out front for you."


He didn't even bat an eyelash. Seriously? 


Triple word bonus points.

So...I'm going on this date. And he knows I'm crazy. And he's looking forward to it. 

He just got an extra Super Mario Brothers mushroom. 1 Up. Wow. I don't think that's ever happened to me before.

Thanks, Joe.

Kickball and Mixed Salty Nuts

So, if dating is like a big game of kickball, I am consistently playing in the outfield.

Yeah, I'm that girl, standing way way way away from the action, who is constantly pushing up her glasses and chewing on a renegade hangnail. I occasionally have skinned knees.

So, when the ball gets kicked in my direction, I'm likely to flail my arms wildly - once I realize the ball's headed straight for me - and run in a zig zag pattern as though I were attempting to escape an alligator attack. But not because I want to escape a date.

It just, you know, catches me off guard and my initial reaction is to panic. Mostly because I know nothing about boys. I know TONS about relationships. I just don't anything about boys.

Regardless, I got asked out on a date today.

I. Did. Not. See. This. Ball. Coming.

Luckily, it was via e-mail so he couldn't see A) my sinus-infected moon face complemented by two sinus-infection caused black eyes or B) me running in a zig zag pattern, flailing my arms and yelling "Big Arms! Big Arms!"

So, I'm going on a date. But not until I stop looking and feeling like I was on the losing end of a prize fight. And, if there's an alligator attack in the mean time, I'll have practiced.

No, really. I swear. I'm 40. My birthday certificate and my mother say so.

And now, because I can, this picture came across Facebook today and I had to share it.

I subsequently sent it to Lex and asked him if he had anything he and Vinny wanted to tell me. *ahem*

Revenge of the NYE Eve Plague v2.0

I am sick.

Again.

I woke up this morning to a swollen moon face that can only mean one thing - Sinus Infection.

So, even though I slept 4 hours this afternoon, and even though I haven't written in a couple of days, I'm going to crawl in my bed with a book and some Mucinex and some hot tea with honey and lemon.

I leave you instead with a fuzzy picture of Spux getting his head licked (and licked and licked) by Lebowski.

The Dude Abides

Enjoy. TTYL

Evidence

Of a podcast waiting to happen...

Clockwise from leftt: Diva, Peej, Jane, Cesqua

I cannot wait to share the ferociousness my friends put out into the podcast world yesterday!

In the Eye of the Beholder

I am not beautiful in the traditional sense.

I've known this for a very long time. And I'm OK with that...now. But it took me three and a half extraordinarily long decades of self-abuse before I was willing to recognize, acknowledge and own what beauty I did possess.

This afternoon, 3 of the strongest, most intelligent, self-assured and confident women I know came together with me to record episode 1 of the podcast, Sharp Pointy Objects. For 3 hours (don't worry, we'll be editing that down) we talked about self-image, self-esteem, true beauty, bullying.

Toward the end of the recording, after I'd listened to each of their experiences growing up female, I found myself making confessions...things I'd never intended to disclose. Like...how I'd dropped out of high school, in part, so I wouldn't have to take Physical Education during which, I knew, I'd be mercilessly made fun of. Like how, at the age of 13 and after having lost a significant amount of weight when Blind Betsy signed me up for Weight Watchers, I discovered something even better than dieting...bulimia. Like how, after years of yo-yo dieting, I'd gotten to the point where surgical intervention wasn't just an option but became a life-saving necessity.

This is the life I've led...for better or for worse.

A few years ago, Gretchen - ultimately a friend (I forgive you completely) and sometime adversary - told me, "Don't you understand? We don't love you because you are pretty or because of the things you do to make our lives better. We love you because you are you. Because you are gold. 100% gold inside. It shines through especially when you don't know it. I wish you'd just know it. It's so rare what it is you possess inside you! You are so special! So beautiful! You have no idea, do you?"

No. I don't. Likely I don't know even now.

All I know, what I have to feel good about myself now, is that I am kind. I am loving. I am understanding. If you need a gentle ear, I am here. If you want an ego boost, I am here to give you just that. If you want or need advice, I'm the girl to which you should turn. I'm educated in that kind of advice, don't you know. THAT is what makes me gold.

What I don't know is how to be traditionally beautiful. I do not know how I can live up to impossible standards of beauty. I can't be thin. I can't be adorable. I can't be that vapid pretty girl that catches your eye. I can't be perpetually 20 years old... I never got to be 20, or 12, or 5. I can't be someone who counts in your standard of beauty because...

I'm just ME, in my infinite wisdom. A me that has endured more than you can possibly imagine to become who I am today.

Ain't that fucking grand?!

So. The next time you're compelled to share that picture of an obese woman on Facebook and make fun of her, I'm going to ask you now to think of me first. Do you laugh at me behind my back? Do you harbor me ill will when I soothe your aching heart? Do you hate me?

Because when you make fun of someone who is fat, ugly, or, in your opinion, worthless, you're making fun of me. FYI.

Am I worthless?

You be the judge.