Snake Eyes

A couple of guys at work were talking about how January is the big month when people get gym memberships that they won't use come February. It made me think about years I've ever tried (and failed) to keep resolutions. I don't tend to make them because I'm one of those lucky people who, if suspects there's anything wrong or toxic in her life - and sometimes this takes several months with frequent blows to the head - can actually make changes.

I'm also the kind of girl who, if a new idea settles, and if convinced enough of its usefulness and plausibility, becomes a zealot about it. With a megaphone. And then into a workshop I go, building a colourful bandwagon... with leather straps that can allow others to easily grab hold and pull themselves onto - just in case they are itching for a roadtrip. That's how I quit smoking 355 days ago. But, alas, I remain the solo traveller; none of my friends have given it up, which is alright because I still love the smell of cigarette smoke.

I also have a very strong authoring program installed, which continuously upgrades who I am (or who I think I am), and who I want to be.

I had become someone who couldn't leave her house, wouldn't be caught dead at certain restaurants, nor deal with any problem without a specific substance at the ready. Dunhills. Being a drug addict didn't fall in line with the who I thought I'd be when I grew up construct. If I'm never a parent, I'll always remain a conscious role model to the 8 year old kid who constantly lurks within, busy baking 1 layer chocolate cakes with her Easy Bake Oven - with one eye judging the adult me.

One of my very good friends, Death (that's how she likes to roll), has been nursing her decades-long friend ever since her really rich, media mogul boyfriend dumped her 7 months ago. To deal with the loss of boyfriend and luxuriant lifestyle, she performs post-work poundings of Grey Goose vodka while face-planting fluffy white hillocks of cocaine. Every day. Apparently, this is the only method she's discovered to combat the constant feeling of "bad". When she makes an ass of herself, like calling Ack, the ex-husband/best friend in the middle of the night, playing coy while slurring - two things Ack doesn't tolerate, nor finds attractive - she requires a circle of rotating babysitters to rescue her from herself. She reminds me of a female version of Robert Downey Jr.; witty, charming and mostly still lovely, but the booze has attacked her face - leaving a puffy, grey pallor with bloated inflation from chin to clavicle - and isolated clusters of irritated friends.

Last weekend Deathie (that's how I roll with her) and I were talking about how we're relative sexual prudes. Nobody would ever guess that either us are prudes in any way, mostly because the stuff that flies out of our mouths can often be provocative (read: disgusting). Walking along a pedestrian-light, but traffic-heavy street, she told me that her alcoholic/ drug addicted friend had once discovered a pair of dice up her vagina. Apparently, the boyfriend of 10 years, who subsequently dumped her, had found them.

Deathie: She didn't know how they got there.

From my ears, those facts grew tendrils with hooked talons straight to Bileville. I lagged behind about 8 paces, clutching my gut. Cars continued to whiz by. I was a doubled over blur.

Bill Cosby was once a guest on Sesame Street.
Mr. Cosby: Remember boys and girls, the only thing you should put in your ear is your elbow.

At the cult-like Beer Emporium, my new place of employ, my disarmingly honest and extremely lovely general manager had expressed to me how tied her self esteem was to requests for sex from her partner.

The Comrade: Really?

But then I thought about. She was just the first person in all of my 38 years that has been able to articulate this shameful truth.

Sally Fields, upon receiving her first Oscar™: You like me! You really, really like me!

Historically, a man wanting to fuck me, well, specifically the man I chose, has directly been tied to my opinion of myself. If he doesn't feel like it, my mind will autonomically churn out: I mustn't be attractive enough, or desirable enough, or enough of enough. At other times, if he (whoever he is) isn't there to defend my honour - if needed, perform basic heroic acts - if warranted, or say the right thing at exactly the right time - he is either essentially flawed and must be eliminated (remove the shame), or I must be essentially flawed and therefore not worth any of the above.

Back in late summer I was still stuck. The above mentioned and other cycles of negativity continued to loop inside my cranium. Yoga, for me the most effective way to calm down and reconnect to my body, was reintroduced. It was helpful, but my body was sad and all it wanted to do was heave and sob. And it did for a while.

I couldn't articulate it at the time, but I needed to receive alternative ways of thinking.

It was an accident, if you believe in such things. I was over at my friend Dirty's house. She is a relative luddite, though likes pretty gadgets that light up and can do tricks. She asked me to come over for Mac tech support. I only had so much time to solve an issue as I later had to meet up with someone who, at the time, was bound to my self esteem. The push to solve her problems while having the tick, tick, tick of time running out of an evening created a substantial anxiety attack within.

Feeling bad about the amount of time it was taking me, Dirty searched through cupboards, nooks and freezer to find items she could re-gift to me. She found a film canister full of pot that her ex-husband/ best friend (the number one thing we have in common) gave to her. This canister had been sitting, untouched, in the concentrated juice department in her freezer for several weeks. She didn't want any; pot doesn't agree with her.

She proffered rolling papers, scissors and the canister. As I sometimes miss smoking, it was a welcome experience. In the past, whenever I'd try to smoke it I'd either get immediately sleepy or eventually paranoid. But I'd never tried smoking A) just a little and B) by myself.

The first discovery made was: The anxiety lifted.
The second was: I was able to observe myself while behaving as I would normally.

Though I came up with computer solutions for everything she had initially asked for, she created newer items that I couldn't do. Upon a rushed exit, brimming with remorse, I said:
Sorry I didn't do it perfectly.

Puff, puff...
Perfectly? This, and I'm sure others, had been things I would have said, but had never really paid attention to. Pot is something that helps me observe the kneejerk statements I'd normally not have cause to reconsider.

For years I'd try drawing on it while in social situ, but now I don't think it was designed for that purpose. Certainly, it can be used as a giggle inducer, if one needs it, but I don't have trouble in that area; giggling, or full out guffawing, happens to be my forte. What I discovered was it is a wonderful tool for eliminating the pesky negative feedback loop that I have a propensity toward. When I'm stuck on something, it helps change my perspective. I am now able to view a problem from a slightly different angle, which is something I often need as I have been the kind of person who cannot do crossword puzzles because I consistently get frustratingly stuck on 6 letter answers to 5 space solutions.

As a bonus, it really helps the wise, reasonable voice within, come out - who, as I discovered, is a bit of a revisionist agitator.

Puff, puff...
What if, way back when, when women ruled the world and men were utilized exclusively for braun and sperm, men sensed their imminent extinction and started a clever uprising? Knowing their greatest advantage was their physical prowess, what if they created something, like, say, evil, just to demonstrate valour and usefulness by protecting their women from this fabricated enemy? Don't worry, I'll save you from a manufactured boogyman, or UFOs over Chicago (I mean come on, CNN reported it), or Weapons of Mass Destruction (which they created for real). A revolution of fear, with men at the helm, promising to save women from these schemes, created to insure the survival of the male species. It's plausible. The Brothers Grimm and Disney penned stories that had fair maidens with tiny feet in need of brave rescue - the pressing of a man's lips upon medically dead women; raising a woman's station, through marriage, to save them from their lowly, servant's plight. We were all willing students that were taught, what? That we are nothing without them.

I found myself sicker than I ever remember being. It was the kind of sick where you have to spend the entire weekend, delirious, in a soaked bed. The kind of sick that puts you on the toilet, because it's the only sane place to be while there are a dozen Ginsu knives and one artless teppanyaki chef in your belly. And while all of this activity is going on, you're rapidly panting while sheets of sweat roll off you. I honestly thought I was going to die the way of Elvis. This was 2 weeks ago. This was, incidentally, the first time I ever remember being sick... by myself.

And it was alright.

Well, to be fair, Chicken, my 17 year old, partially blind cat, was by my side the whole time.

I know that if I had been with someone... human, in any significant capacity, I would have wanted some kind of highly charged care - the kind that concerned parents give to their small children when they get sick. There's always the fear the child might die. I think we all sort of look for that level of care when we're adults and sick. Or, maybe that's just me... and all the men I've ever been with.

Not without back-up, I did get a power assist from Ack, the ex-husband/ best friend. Ever reliable, he did a supplies run which included Neo Citron. As 'tis the season for viral infections, might I suggest the addition of vodka to this hot elixir. It provides A) sweaty good times and B) a 1-2 punch straight to unconsciousness. Nothing heals faster than action-packed bed rest™.

So, I'm all better now. It just took an extended weekend, one that did not fall on Christmas this year.

Christmas was lovely. I enjoyed the exotic Czech-style schnitzeled carp on the Eve with Ack's family, and the traditional English bacon-draped turkey - with all the accoutrements - with Fatty's family on the Day. Apparently I put the eX, in X-mas. Just because I'm not a wife nor a girlfriend to either of these men anymore, does not mean I don't love them or they don't love me. And these 2 are my favourite families in the whole world.

Ack: It's good; you've got your surrogates all lined up.

Lately I've been watching people with a different polarized lens prescription.

On Wake and Bakes I'll consider that maybe men married as an insurance policy, making sure that the women they married never had sex with anyone else but them. And maybe women married men just for financial security. And the only reason they stayed together was from fear of loneliness. Odds were they would have a date for special occasions, and someone to hover over them with chicken soup when they ran a fever. The ball is permanently affixed to the chain and possession is 9/10ths of the law. I've looked into the eyes of the Bored and their spouses, the Accused, and I don't ever want to be there again. I will maintain that the loneliest I have ever been has categorically been while in a serious relationship.

Maybe there is no One. No Neo. No Superman. No Jesus. No One to save me, because I never really needed saving in the first place. Maybe this sounds like I'm shitting on love, but I'm not. I hold love in the highest esteem. I just don't know if I'm cut out for marriage or its equivalent anymore.

Loving many, though...

Ack: What? Are you turning into a Mormon, now?

They're all just plausibilities, anyway. I actually have no idea about anything.