Sometimes when I'm exorbitantly tired...

...the little things set me off. Like having to pay $15 dollars to check a back at Continental. I wont even balk at $5 for a cup of coffee. But to check my bag? This is bad, this is how I know the economy is so bad. Can't they just fold it into the price of the ticket and pretend? Never in my life, in all twenty plus years, has anyone had to pay for one measly bag, under 50 lbs.

Then of course my anger about the bag becomes anger about the fact that I can't fit into my jeans. And my NY staple of skirts and boots just won't fly in Boulder--or across the US (and I mean this literally) not for less than $15 dollars that is.

Damn jeans. Damn creams that are too large to put in a carry on bag. This is what happens--anger becomes the river that lubricates my stream of conscience and all the sudden the sky is falling.

Take a deep breath. In. Out.

This too shall pass. It's just been triggered by my post traumatic stress disorder that I contracted after eighteen years of traveling with my father, what a nightmare--that's a whole 'nother post.

I'm off to pack the tiniest little carry on you've ever seen, with more stuff than you've ever seen. Mary Poppins magic here I come...

a list

I have this really fantastic doctor on the Upper East Side. Let's call him Dr. Tom. Dr. Tom keeps me grounded. Very grounded. I've seen a host of psychologists and psychotherapists and psychiatrists in my day. And I must say that I've never met one quite like Tom.

I actually don't know what his classification is exactly, but he seems to talk about neuroscience quite a bit. Never one for science class (except for a brief fascination with physics) my taking to Tom is quite unexpected. However, when he talks about the human body and the physiological causes and effects of anxiety and its partners in crime, I find comfort in the tangibility of it all. Lots of words, complicated sentences, am I making sense? How to explain this? Learning about the actual science of  it all, makes me feel like my anxiety is something outside myself--something that is changeable--something that doesn't define who I am.

So last week, after a mini-meltdown, Dr. Tom asked me to make two lists. Comparative lists, if you will. The first was to be a list of all those things that make up who I am. The next was all those things that make up who I am when anxiety is sittin' pretty in the driver's seat. Easy enough.

As this week passed things would come to me in spurts. I'd be on the subway and think how when anxiety is around I don't like to sit on the train. Or take pictures. I spend money on silly things that I can't afford (like trashy magazines) and I avoid the gym at all costs. I sleep longer than usual and become lazy. Anxiety manifests itself in a million little ways so the latter list was quite long. But I never really took the time to fill out the former--the list of those things that define me in my truest and purest state. But why need I? I know those things, I didn't have time to write them all down.

Dr. Tom pounced on this--said that perhaps I didn't write the list because I wasn't actually sure I knew the things that make me me. And that inability to identify is a breeding ground where anxiety festers before it slithers in and fills the cracks.

But I guess the real problem wasn't my inability to identify certain characteristics--it was my unwillingness to even try.

So here I go, giving it a go. Here's my list of those things that make me who I am. Because at the end of the day, there are some things I know. Tangible. Tangible things, so that when anxiety attempts to knock me over I can simply hold fast to my list, laugh, and say, "weebles wobble but they don't fall down." Me being the weeble of course...

The sound of John Legend's voice tickles my fancy. Okay, okay...so maybe it just plain turns me on. But not in the way you're thinking, but more in the i'll-dance-on-the-subway-platform-if-i-want-toand a this-smile-ain't-cuz-of-any-guykind of way. Most especially the song "It Don't Have to Change" (Times is hard and things are a'changin'/I pray to God that we can remain the same/All I'm tryin' to say is our love don't have to change/ No it don't have to change)

 

I clean house best, right before I go away on vacation. 

 

I'm always going to splash about in rain puddles. 

 

I'm a Bruce Springsteen kinda gal. Interpret that as you will.

 

I love wearing baseball caps. And I love history.

 

I'm always up for a game of kickball, capture the flag, foosball, or an all-night Super Mario Brothers' marathon. Sega, anyone?

 

I love to ski. Fast. And the man I marry better be able to keep up. 

 

I like pizza and cheeseburgers and my idea of a perfect date involves one of the aforementioned food items. 

 

There's nothing like going to the ballpark to see America's pastime. Though, some day I'd like to take in the World Cup.

 

I think I might elope to Rome. 

 

I want to see the world. All of it. Prague, Mumbai, Morocco, Singapore. I want to live all across Europe. I want to act on the West End--then I'll get to wear galoshes to and from work every day.

 

One of my strongest fantasies is that of my lover singing "Isn't she lovely" while wearing only boxer briefs and socks (I know, I know, it sounds a little Risky Business, but maybe Tom Cruise actually did one thing right, albeit a very long time ago--doesn't Valkyrie look awful?). 

 

I want Yo-Yo Ma to play at my wedding. Impractical? I refuse to be restricted by such labels.

 

I cannot play the game by anyone else's rules. I just can't. Even if I try, my body rebels.

 

I love to dance around my apartment. And the wood floors are very conducive to sock-sliding.

 

I'm a Libra which means my moral compass is always working overtime. Often to my own detriment. 

 

I hold on to things that any normal person would forgive and forget. I have a memory like a steel trap. 

 

I've always wanted glasses. I think they're super sexy.

 

 

I'm getting the sense that this is getting to be too much all at once, but I'm sure more will follow as it comes.

 

On a separate note, I got to catch Twilight with my lovelies. And I hadn't realized how much I've missed my friends. I laughed through the entire thing, but didn't feel so bad cuz Sarah talked through the entire thing. This didn't stop her from shooting dirty looks my way for my incessant giggles (oh, I have, have, have missed her being all the way in Chicago).

For all of you who were worried...

...I'm no longer sleeping on an air mattress. Let the cheering begin.

So here are some pics of the room as it now looks. Note: this might be boring for anyone other than immediate family, but indulge me please. 

 

And For those who don't know me really well, know this: this girl loves her bed--reading, sleeping, napping, oh my!

 

 

For a while there (okay, okay a brief day) the bed was in danger of looking like a hospital bed--twin bed, all white, think about it. And then Target came to my rescue. Love, love, love me some Target. A few pillows and a deliciously, comfortable throw (despite the fact that it hoards static electricity in its folds) make all the difference.

Please note the bins up top. You gotta get creative when it comes to storage in this city. Eventually I'll find a ladder so I can space them out evenly...

I think life might be a lot like the 1 train

Often too crowded. Sometimes too slow. Most of the time you're in transition between one platform and the next. Too often you just want to get to where you're going. And then just when you think darkness is the only thing you'll ever know, you reach Dyckman street and the sun comes pouring in.

And for all you non-New Yorkers out there, the 1 train is part of our undeground subway system. It runs from South Ferry (the low end of the island) all the way up to the Bronx. And it happens to be my most often used and most convenient mode of transportation. Dyckman Street is way up there in the Bronx just south of 210 and the train ends at 245h street.

Four Simple Rules

If I were to write a how-to book on overcoming depression, it would boil down to four simple rules.

1. eat well (eat what you like, when you like, with a focus on nourishing the body)

2. get on a regular sleep schedule (go to bed at a reasonable hour and get up at a reasonable hour--preferably around the same time each morning and evening)

3. exercise (not for vanity's sake, but because the body likes it, craves it, desires to move and dance and jump around--the body wants to be challenged)

4. and finally...always have a good book to read

Tonight, after an absolutely lovely dinner with my oh-so-generous aunt and uncle, at what's quickly becoming one of my favorite Upper West Side haunts,good enough to eat, I found myself with nothing to do.

see I'll surprise you all with a picture every once in a while, when you least expect it

 

Saturday night in Manhattan, the world was my oyster, anything was possible. Or was it? I've recently come to the realization that all my gal pals are in committed relationships. This means no single strumpets to dance the night away with in search of that oh-so-perfect--he's-the-one male to bring home to mom and dad. What's a girl to do? Hit up the bars by myself? I don't think so. I have pride enough to know when to hide away in my oh-it-needs-to-be-cleaned New York apartment. 

I weighed my options. I could...watch this week's Grey's Anatomy a second time, since the show is finally getting good again, and now I get to drool (quite unexpectedly mind you) over Christina's new love interest, Dr. Owen Hunt. Tangent alert: I used to think the most important thing on my love list (you know, the list where you enumerate the qualities of your perfect mate so that the universe can then bring him to you) was that he made me laugh and could laugh at himself. I now think this is a very close second to... manliness--I know, I know, manliness, what is that? I don't know how to describe it, but you know it when you see it, and you most certainly can feel it. I don't have time or patience any more to mess around with boys. Oh gosh, got way off topic there for a second...so I could watch Grey's, or hit up a movie. No, no, neither of those options was quite right. And then it hit me. Yes. I would got to Barnes and Noble and get the first book in the Twilight series. It was my turn to succumb to the teeth of a vampire.

I got there, asked the sales associate where I might find said book and he pointed me towards the teen section--oh wait...no, no, teen section? A mighty blow. I was nothing, if not past the teen years. Right? Okay, so maybe I was just slightly embarrassed because this request in conjunction with the enormous black bow that was now pinning back my bangs  knocked me down a few pegs. But a good book is a good book and nothing to be ashamed of. So after a moment of lowering my reddened cheeks, I marched proudly to the teen section and in doing so honored that part of me that will always be the seventeen-year-old who spent her weekends curled up with the best company a girl can hope for (apart from Dr. Hunt)--a good book.

Life in New York can be hard. All the time.  Every day. And being twenty-three ain't no slice of pie. In fact, I think it might be harder than those storied teenage years. So a million times a day, I am forced to remind myself that this too shall pass. And a million times a day I am forced to make the active choice to pursue happiness.

This is all to say that, that choice is always easier when you're well rested with something to read and friends to share a lovely and indulgent meal with. Now, if I could only find my way to the gym.