Husband walked in on me yesterday finishing off the large bag of potato chips I’d bought the day before.
“What?” I said, aggressively. “I’m eating my feelings.”
“Write them down!” He shouted. Which is particularly funny, coming from him, because his motto is ‘Never write anything down. It will incriminate you.’
But I did used to write all my feelings down. And writing them down helped because I was able to sort them out, make some perverse sense of them - or, I was at least able to find the funny in them. Lately, I’ve not felt like writing about my feelings. I’ve felt like eating those feelings, shoving fat and sugar and salt right on top of them and squishing them down deeper into my whatever to deal with later.
Later is going to be a holy mess.
With that in mind, as I was licking the salt and fat off my fingers and smearing the chip crumbs off my face, I told Husband he was right. I should probably think about writing again...
And then this morning, at Costco I realized that Husband was wrong. Why write when feelings can be smothered in dark chocolate covered mangos.
I may have bought multiple boxes - I mean, bags.
Let’s face it, chocolate might not fix a feeling but it sure tastes good smothering them down.
A random assortment of lessons from the roller coaster that has been 2016:
When a 64lb dog is running at you at 30mph, stand still. Do not shift to the right thinking he’ll run past you, leaving your body intact. He will not.
Friendship at my age is exactly the same as friendship when I was first in school.
Some ‘friends’ will only play with you if you play the game exactly the way they want you to. Those people are not friends you can rely on. They never were, they never will be.
People can and will always surprise you. Not always in a good way.
I - a light skinned, mixed race female, raised in one of the wealthiest areas in the USA - am some people’s only ‘black’ friend.
Regardless of my age, I will always need my mom. And even though I’ve prepped myself for her eventual end, I will be shattered.
Everyone wears a mask. It is rare and lucky to find people who will show you their real self. Treasure them.
Eggplant emojis are not just about eggplants. Taco emojis are not just about tacos. And Eggplant Fridays is a thing that can make me, a person who’s seen everything, blush. I’d put links but I’m scared to.
I will put this link to things people have put in their bodies because I find it fascinating. Especially those who tell the doctors and nurses that they “fell” onto them with a straight face.
Sometimes, sitting on the couch is the best medicine for the blues. Sometimes it’s the worst. No matter how old I get, I don’t make the right choice.
No one couple’s marriage is like yours. No ones. So when people share advice, or get divorced or their partners do something crazy good – like fly you to Kenya for a safari for your birthday - or crazy bad – like dump you over the phone - it is not your marriage. Don’t treat it as if it were.
I don’t like strawberries. I have never liked strawberries. But for most of my life, I’ve eaten the strawberries because someone gave them to me or they’re in the damn fruit cup and I know I should eat fruit. But am old now. I am big enough and ugly enough to not eat the stupid strawberries.
A Gnome on someone’s front lawn is apparently a symbol that Swingers live there. Yup. Don’t ask me how I know. I’m not ready to talk about it yet.
I bet your grandparent’s love of gnomes taking on new meaning?
Some people keep score. If you forget an event or say the wrong thing or don't answer a flipping text message, they will put you on the 'dead to me' list. Forever.
If someone is a scorekeeper, they will always keep score. Always.
You cannot win against scorekeeper. Ever. So don’t even try.
No matter how healthy I try to be, a bag of potato chips can tempt me into that dark place where I don’t breathe between mouthfuls and will bite the fingers off anyone who tries to take one.
A bad day can be warmed up with a giggle and three dogs can irritate anyone into a giggle.
No matter how intelligent Husband might be, he cannot load the dishwasher in the most logical way. In fact, not one of my very intelligent family members – by marriage or by blood – can load the sucker in the most commonsense way. And if you want the damn dishes to be stacked in the cupboard in color order, load the dishwasher in that color order. Especially since that someone isn’t the one to UN-load the dishwasher.
Sometimes dishwashers mean more than just dishes. Sometimes, not.
If someone tells you they are not judgmental. They are.
If someone tells you they aren’t sexist. They are.
If someone tells you they’re not racist. They are.
Life is full of do-overs. The clock is the same time twice a day, every day. A diet can start whenever - or in my case, after almost every meal. I can decide on a plan, change my mind and then change it back. That’s what makes me me. Life is not an absolute so I need to do my best to keep on moving forward and not getting stuck in the mess that is my past, appreciate the present and not eat the effing strawberries.
Bring it on 2017. I am ready for whatever lessons you have to teach me - though I would prefer to ace the year so be gentle and make it an easy one, please. Not all of me is held together with Titanium.
This spectacular art - which expresses my brain/heart/soul - is by Ingo Maurer. This is a great article about him/it here and the product page should you wish to go shopping, here.
No idea who took the photo - I snagged it off Facebook - but love the light and imperfections of the shot. Wabi Sabi, people!
7am. In car taking FIL (FatherInLaw) to the airport after his 20 day annual eating and weight gaining visit.
FIL: I have an exercise machine in my bedroom.
Husband: Yeah. But you don't use it.
Me: Husband has an exercise machine in his bedroom too. Me!
(And because it's early and I've just alluded to s.e.x. I laugh hysterically. FIL does not.)
Husband: Yeah. I don't use that either. I just put clothes on it.
I've decided I should write a book called 'Things you shouldn't do when you're on crutches'.
The first chapter in my informative and picturesque book will cover things you can't carry even if you think you can. On this list is any type of liquid in an unsealed container. Because no matter how slow you go and no matter how little you have in there, the liquid will not stay in the container. And any amount liquid spilled on a floor with crutches is a bad combination and usually results in a spectacular slow-motion slapstick fall worthy of a vaudeville comedy act. And if you the slow-motion fall doesn't end up with you on the floor, the nightmare that is trying to wipe up said spill will commence. I'm pretty sure I resemble a baby giraffe at the watering hole for the first time each time I try to wipe up a mess, crutch legs splayed wide, stumble stepping as I go. Very pretty.
I'd for sure have to include a chapter or two on what getting dressed is like when you forget your bra and attempt to remedy the situation by crutching from the bathroom to the closet. I'd title this chapter, Warning: Crutches are not meant to be used naked. EVER. No good can come from breasts swinging free as one lurches from one end of the house to the other, the parade of dogs trailing behind. Metal sticks near anyone's precious loveliness is a train wreck you can't look away from. I can only hope the neighbors have caught a video or two of this happening and I'll be able to recoup my losses and get myself a new pair of boobs.
And of course, I'd need a chapter on the perils of cooking while on crutches. Taking things off a hot stove or out of a hot oven while supporting yourself with crutches can be a challenge, if not totally impossible, and requires a lot of awkward lurching and cussing. A simple sandwich requires lots of back and forth to the fridge and sink but the "meal" that broke me would be the brownies. The lesson is that making brownies at the one end of the counter furthest from the sink when one has two functioning legs can be messy. When one has one good leg, a boot and crutches, it's a failure waiting to happen. Pictures of the egg I dripped across the kitchen floor and down the right crutch would need to be included. That and video of the dog trying to lick the egg off later when I'm off balance and carrying the remnants of a cup of tea. (I refer you back to the chapter on carrying liquids. It should not be done.) I now have a pair of chocolate covered crutch handles that are sure to forever remain mucky because I was an idiot, dropped the spoon in the batter and fished it out with two hands despite knowing I had ten crutch steps from the sticky bowl to the sink. And then, because I don’t learn, I did it again.
I feel no shame in telling you I ate almost all of the brownies as soon as they came out of the oven and cooled down enough to shove them into my face. I deserved every last one.
Yeah, so far this book is really just a list of stupid things I've done to myself over the last eight weeks. It's very possible that no one else would need my dribbles of wisdom to get themselves through forced crutch captivity. It’s very possible that others don’t need to try something to know it won’t work. It's very possible I'm just special - bruised and chocolate battered boobs but special nonetheless. It is also very possible that another bad decision might be me licking the handles clean – don’t judge me. I have one swollen dead leg and a lack of chocolate in the house.
My name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me