If Sloths Did Yoga, I Would Be the Cutest Slovenly Sloth

I’m the worst blogger ever.

At least, I would be if I was passing judgment on my ability to blog with frequency and gusto, which I’m not, of course.

As a reintroduction to my neglected life-documentation habits, I will bookend the last month or so with two illustrated examples of general slovenliness. In the middle of these two episodes, I have been putting my life together, becoming at peace with the universe, loving Lent (The Catholic church actually pressures you into becoming a better person once a year- it’s lovely), and practicing yoga, but it’s not as fun(ny) to detail all of that as it is to recount my moments of ridiculous slovenliness to you. Right?

Roughly a month ago, I woke up with pie in my hair. Pie. IN MY HAIR. How did this happen, you ask? I might possibly have been eating not-quite-set-correctly chocolate pie made for work right out of the pie tin before bed. I also might not have had any clean dishes, as I hate doing the dishes and always procrastinate about them, and might have been using a fork to eat drippy pie.  And that’s how I went to work (I didn’t have time to shower!) with pie in my hair.

This is how you do your hair when you have pie in it.


A full month after this event, it’s still very much winter here: wet, cold, and snowy. An interesting side effect of being really cold (aside from bedtime pie gluttony) is that your nose might develop the propensity to shamelessly run without your consent, or even knowledge. When your nose is numb, and your face is numb, it might take some time to realize that there is snot dripping out of your nose for no reason at all. Of course, I might also be crying. Either way, sometimes, often, in the winter, my nose is drippy.

Yesterday I was having a too-sad-and-defeated-to-move phase at my desk (these are fairly rare these days, but if any place will incur them, work will), and drinking tea out of a giant mug. Can I just say that I love these giant face-mugs? I think most people use them for soup and such, but my sister painted me one for Christmas (I would link her, but she’s lame and not on facebook or the internetz, so no such luck) and I use it at home for tea all of the time! It’s like a giant tea pot. For your face, and your insides.



Dramatic reenactment


Yesterday I was clearly too sad to move my body enough to lift the tea, so I was delving my face towards the cup on my desk in a half-hearted attempt to chai my way out of my sadness and despair. I overshot and pretty much dunked half of my face into the tea. As I resurfaced, I sighed at my general failure to thrive, and thought, “I hope there isn’t snot in my tea.” Shame. SHAME.

And so goes my life, basically. Lena Dunham has nothing on me (aside from being famous and wildly successful).

Thankfully, my entire office is not as sloppy and haphazard as I am. I stand in stark juxtaposition to my other Americorps compadre, who had worked here a full year before I came.  We dress similarly, are both going to grad school for social work (she macro, me clinical), we’re both vegetarians (well, she’s technically a pescatarian, but let’s not nitpick self-labels here) and seem like we should have just loads in common. She is always more beloved than myself, however, and I think I’ve stopped fighting it.

I recently read this really shaming article about why some people are habitually late, and it made me feel sad about myself and I want to have friends so I’m trying to be better about my perpetual late-ness. If you’re worried the office doesn’t function as it should because of my propensity for less than timely behavior, good news for you! NM is always early to everything, and the first in the office every morning. Her hair is smooth and shiny and bobbed, braided sleek against her head, while mine is frizzy and waivy and generally a long, hot, kind-of-managed mess. When we recently managed a registration table at an awards ceremony (she was lovingly assigned to do so, I stepped up to the plate second-string because I’m rarely asked to do anything and I was bored), she smoothly, clearly, and loudly directed people to our table while I positioned my scarf in such a way it hid the stains on my white shirt, pretended my cardigan didn’t have a hole in the elbow, and smilingly directed people to the coffee and pastries.  When we do presentations at high schools, giggling boys will pass up notes addressed to her.

She has keys to all of the office things, I don’t. When I offer to help with something, she smilingly replies that she has it taken care of. I often feel like the less-favored child, pluggling along in my poverty and slovenliness while she takes center stage and is handed awards. If I shovel snow for three hours on a weekend, she shovels for seven. Even though I’m sure some of my annoyance is highlighted in this post (WORKING on it), I don’t wish to be NM in any way. I am as pretty (high school boys’ opinions don’t count), as smart, as capable as NM, even if I am rarely given the opportunity to demonstrate this.

Rather, I’ve recognized in NM glimpses of myself. How did I have any friends in college?! Taking an excess of tasks because it was easiest to do them myself than to manage and work with others, constantly trying to prove myself to someone or something, looking perfect, sometimes at the expense of another. Well, that’s a shame. Threes of the world, be shamed. BE SHAMED.

A friend was recently talking to me about enneagrams, and I’m either a two with a very strong three wing or a three with a very strong two wing. I’m leaning towards the latter, but there are all kinds of rules about how you can only have a "wing" next to your type and this and that and I don’t fully understand all of the rules and regulations. Threes are The Achiever. Threes spend their time performing, pleasing, accomplishing, achieving, doing. Although none of this should have been self-revelatory news, it’s always interesting, I think, to delve into what motivates oneself. I’m motivated by accomplishment, and I don’t havvveeee to be. Everything is not THAT important, and sometimes it means I have come off as snooty or self-involved or exclusive, which is not nice and universal and such.

One of the greatest changes I’m implementing in my life is giving a lot less fucks. While I’m sure this would be horrible advice for some individuals, for me, it’s life changing. I’m so much more zen and Mudita and stable and happy. And possibly humble, but my blog is probably a bad place to try to convince you of that.

 Any of my advice should probably be taken with a grain of salt anyway, since the other night when it was a full moon and I had half-bathed my face in tea I started crying when I learned that “buffalo wings” are actually little baby chicken wings.



And

 

And

My Mom is BFFs with Mrs. Claus, and All I Have is Mascara on My Socks

I haven’t posted in a long time, which is regrettable, since my last post made me sound like a baby-hater (untrue). I’ve been very emotional (read on) and my computer has died a tragic death. These are my excuses, although my recent lack of internet transparency is likely of no concern to you whatsoever.

My cat being terribly cute and hugging my arm for hours because he missed me,
because cat pictures are always a good idea.


My mom used to make phone calls to Santa Claus when we misbehaved. She employed this tactic once, anyway. I was fighting with my sister in the kitchen, and suddenly she was on the phone with Santa, just like that, using one of the tools in her mom-arsenal of secret things adults get access to and children don’t. Or maybe it was Mrs. Claus; I’m not sure. I was five or six years old, and I wasn’t terribly convinced. “How did you get their number?” I asked, with one eyebrow suspiciously raised and my little arms folded over my chest accusatorily, a preemptive emulation of my glaring-at-the-world–suspiciously faze, circa the ripe old age of ten. “All parents get their number when they have kids,” my mom replied. I suppose this ruse worked to some extent, because we stopped fighting, but I don’t think my mother tried this method of discipline again.

A visual of the timeless skeptical eyebrow


A part of me has always loved Christmas, but this year I found myself being a bit of a scrooge. With so many young children, the idea of Santa, (and perhaps therefore, holiday magic) has always been well perpetuated (definitely did not believe at the age of my eight year old little brother, but you know, he’s the youngest) in my family. We have many, many photographs of us dressed up in matching outfits for holiday pictures, in which plaid, Scottie dogs, and big bows are often themes. We tour neighborhood lights, read the “Christmas story” Christmas morning, and get to mass hours early on Christmas Eve to stake out the front row.

Every year I find myself more annoyed by the consumerism of it all, the exclusive, Christian-middle-class implications, and the materialistic obsessions of the season. Even in religious settings, we begin relaying the message to children that good things come to you if you behave well, and if Santa Claus doesn't show... it's not about means, it's about being good.

A poor-quality phone of the Rockefeller Center tree I saw in New York.

 

My cynicism this year might not have been terribly unique, but my emotional upheaval was. Something happened to my ability to regulate my feelings when I landed in the DFW airport. I’m not sure exactly what triggered the overexertion of my tear ducts that would continue for my entire vacation- probably some perfect storm of seeing people I hadn’t seen in a long time, holiday food, and being extremely vulnerable. Whatever the cause, I found myself crying hysterically and inconsolably roughly every fifteen minutes. For almost three days straight, I didn’t at any point stop crying for more than three hours.

When I begin crying, I physically cannot stop. No matter how hard I stare at the ceiling and try to calm myself down, the more I cry the angrier I get at myself for crying, and thus more crying ensues. I’m not a pretty or light crier. I sob hard, I can’t breathe, and fountains of snot flow down my face. I’ve had some rough moments of public humiliation while crying- I’ve cried in Disneyland, in restaurants, in front of people I desperately needed to present a professional face to. I’ve always been criticized for being overly sensitive, and I cried much too often as a teenager, but most of the time my emotions have been much better regulated as an adult.

All for naught. On Christmas day I spent roughly the early morning into late afternoon crying my eyes out, sprawled across my bed as I threw used Kleenex and toilet paper tufts into the wasteland of snot and angst developing aside my bed. I physically had to arch my eyebrows to keep my eyes from disappearing into red folds of sagging flesh for days afterwards.

Eventually, I ran out of Kleenex, and reached for the closest absorptive article I could find: my soft new socks. All of my socks (and underwear, and cardigans…) have extremely large holes in them, so over Christmas my mom took pity on me and bought me some new socks. It was quite kind of her. In so doing, she unlocked for me the most comforting tear-wiper in existence. The next time you can’t stop crying, find a (clean) sock to wipe your eyes (but not nose…) with. It’s extremely comforting and pain-relieving.

In my desperation to pull myself together (while holding socks to my face- not pulled together, clearly), I googled “how to stop crying.” I found this wikihow article, which is a bit shocking in its willingness to recommend mild doses of self-inflicted pain, and was entirely unhelpful to me, but the weird illustrations almost make it worth it. Of course, there are also numerous articles on women's crying habits (we’ll save nitpicking gender stereotypes for another day). At the end of this article, I was left aghast at the suggestion that on average, women cry for eight minutes at a time. Eight minutes?! How does everyone’s face not dissolve into a torrential downpour of sadness for hours on end every time they cry?

My best found solution to this weepy state included curling up on the couch with Sara and watching all three Tegan and Sara documentaries ever made, fangirling their personal lives, and singing loudly to every one of their songs. Tegan and Sara understand all heartbreak and sadness.

Based on my extensive experience, I have put together a rough list of ten things (coincidentally, my favorite number) to do when you can’t stop crying (compiled out of necessity from years of experience):

1.       Listen to every sad Tegan and Sara song (which is all of them).

2.       If a specific person is making you cry, make like you’re in elementary school again and imagine how very, very sad they would be if something awful happened to you. Never discredit the value of a few well-placed "DON'T TELL ME HOW TO FEEL"s, either.

3.       One of my friends gave me the handy tip of freezing spoons and then placing them on your eyelids. It at least gives you something to do.

4.       Watch this video. It’s guaranteed to make you so happy you won't even be able to handle your feelings.

5.       If you’re up to it, tell yourself nice things, like “you’re strong, you’re smart, you’re beautiful.” I strongly suggest not doing this in front of a mirror, unless you’re either the most resilient person alive or a pretty crier. In fact, just avoid mirrors in general.

6.       Wear leggings. The one or two times a year I elect to wear leggings as pants, I always run across some slut-shamey post on facebook about how girls should dress. Don’t let yourself be judged: you’re out of bed, walking, and comfortable. If any person is able to overlook your puffy train wreck of a face long enough to check out your ass, more power to them.

7.       Hug your best friend, your cat, or new acquaintances (in desperate straits).

8.       Let yourself cry at other, more appropriate times, so that the greatest public damage to your reputation might be eluded.

9.       If you have money, buy yourself this, or this (dying), or this, or this, or these, in purple (dying again). Items of materialized joy, right there. In fact, if you have all the money, buy me these things as well.

10.

I’m now past the holiday season, back in Massachusetts, and much more internally collected. Too bad my friends and family couldn't have seen me in this state. My “New Year’s resolutions” are basically my general goals for improving my life, like taking better care of the planet, better care of myself, not being late (or less late), writing more, etc. Trying to become a better person so I don’t mope so much.

While I work on that, if you need a shipment of socks, ask my mom. Tell her Ms. Claus called and told you to ask her to.