Oh my gosh! I have a reason to live again!
Yes, I, Breakup Babe have a crush. And where there's a crush, there's hope!
Phew. Things were looking pretty grim there as I had not had a crush in an entire month, and that crush, as you might recall - Cutest Boy in the World - gave me the Lets Just Be Friends (LJBF) talk and then disappeared into the ether in his flip-flops, garlic emanating from his every pore.
Hmmph.
Well WHO NEEDS HIM?
Certainly not me. So what if he was a rock star, rock climber, poet, and adorable dark-haired boy all in one?
Especially, because, for one: I am now a rock star in my own right, after making my auspicious debut yesterday evening at the food court of the Crossroads Mall, which you could call the Madison Square Garden of Bellevue. Along with that velvety-voiced Sexy Blue-Eyed Boy, who sang, I played "Martha" on piano, and did not mess up once! I probably even looked kind of hot up there in my tatoo-baring red tank top and my (almost-too-tight) jeans, never mind that I'm well on my way to 400 pounds.)
And, especially after my coffee non-date yesterday with (must come up with clever acronym here but have not yet) a dark-haired, fair-skinned, green-eyed charmer. After encountering this handsome, lively, and lovably nerdy program manager in a meeting here at The Company last week I contrived to have a "meeting" with him for "work-related" purposes. (I am nothing if not creative when it comes to these sorts of things).
I was worried, of course, that - being a clueless guy - he might not get that this was actually a date, or worse yet,of course, that he could care less. But, in fact, he seemed to get it. He seemed to get it to the point of being nervous even, at first. Yours truly was too, but I hide it better. Well I did spill coffee on myself, but that happens all the time.
To make a long story short (because I must go catch the bus now) This guy is articulate, bright, dynamic, driven. Engaging. Sexy - yet, at the same time, nerdy - which makes him all the more sexy. There were sparks. There was talk of going to non-work-related coffee next week. There is, in a word, hope.
And that's all I need to get by on these days, really. Of course, I have hopes of being a famous author too, or at least a published one. But I don't want to be famous all alone.
Friday, June 25, 2004
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Here are some things I want to know:
How do so many books get written? The shelves at Barnes & Noble are filled with them! There are new books every day! Thousands of shiny new books! And thousands of someones have to sit down and actually write them, drinking millions of cups of coffee and spending a million hours rewriting the same sentence; pestering their friends to read this and give comments on that; and it takes months - years! - and yet all those books get written.
At the rate I'm writing, however, my book will be on the shelves by 2030. Hope we're all still alive by then to laugh at the spectacle of Breakup Babe with a walker. Might be good for the action figures, though - they could come out with "Nursing Home BB," complete with a portable oxygen tank.
Am I going to find a husband before I weigh 400 pounds? It would seem not, because despite still fitting (barely) into my size 4s, Celexa seems to be exacting its revenge on me. After two years of unrelenting hard work, General C. (as I lovingly personify Celexa in my book), has apparently decided he will unleash the dreaded side effect on me: weight gain.
In a mere two days I gained FIVE pounds despite eating like a bird and exercising to boot (I had a sense he was about to pull this little trick.) At this rate, I will be 400 pounds by fall sometime, so please Good Lord, let me trap someone before then!
How do so many books get written? The shelves at Barnes & Noble are filled with them! There are new books every day! Thousands of shiny new books! And thousands of someones have to sit down and actually write them, drinking millions of cups of coffee and spending a million hours rewriting the same sentence; pestering their friends to read this and give comments on that; and it takes months - years! - and yet all those books get written.
At the rate I'm writing, however, my book will be on the shelves by 2030. Hope we're all still alive by then to laugh at the spectacle of Breakup Babe with a walker. Might be good for the action figures, though - they could come out with "Nursing Home BB," complete with a portable oxygen tank.
Am I going to find a husband before I weigh 400 pounds? It would seem not, because despite still fitting (barely) into my size 4s, Celexa seems to be exacting its revenge on me. After two years of unrelenting hard work, General C. (as I lovingly personify Celexa in my book), has apparently decided he will unleash the dreaded side effect on me: weight gain.
In a mere two days I gained FIVE pounds despite eating like a bird and exercising to boot (I had a sense he was about to pull this little trick.) At this rate, I will be 400 pounds by fall sometime, so please Good Lord, let me trap someone before then!
Sunday, June 20, 2004
Yours Truly Cannot Read A Map
Ok, here's an idea for a new reality show. It's called "Lost! In the Wild!" and the premise is they send navigationally-challenged cuties alone into the wilderness and see if they make it back alive.
Let's just say the first victim - er- star - is moi, Breakup Babe, who, you might recall, while also being a glamorpuss about town, is also a stud mountaineer. But, alas, she has always been helped along in her studliness by various men, who drive her to the trailhead, make sure she doesn't take wrong turns into a crevasse, and encourage her when she cries at the hard parts.
On this particular day, BB sets out jauntily from Seattle to lead a hike. This is funny for a number of reasons, not least that BB cannot for the life of her, read a map. You'd think that the venerable Mountaineers, for whom she is guiding this trip might have done a background check, but nooo.
So BB is toodling along in her little green Subaru, NO GUY IN SIGHT, to lead this group of waiting hikers up to some Godforsaken peak near Mt. Rainier (she only hopes that one of THEM is male and read a map.) She leaves town a little late, of course, but makes good time, and then -- the camera does a close up here -- she realizes she has missed the turnoff to Highway 169 or whatever stupid highway she was supposed to take. Damn it! She pulls off at the next exit, gets directions from a friendly convenience store clerk, who tells her no, no go to Highway 167 instead - it's right there, past the WalMart, the RV Park, and the gun shop.
A little tense now, BB finds Highway 167 near the gunshop, as instructed, but then is faced with a turnoff she didn't expect. Highway 410? That's the one to Mt. Rainier, right? Never mind that BB has been to Mt. Rainier gazillions of times. She has climbed
it - lest you forget. But there has always been some GUY driving.
She gets on Highway 410, but then quickly gets off, thinking she has gone the wrong way - never mind that Rainier is looming brilliantly on the horizon - and thus begins a 45-minute, increasingly desperate tour through the streets of Puyallup. It involves getting directions at least twice more (once from a woman with a barely understandable Chinese accent); ending up at back on Highway 5 going the wrong direction; until finally, she gets back on Highway 410, where she was supposed to be all along.
By now she running late. Very late. Mountaineer leaders are never late. They are fifteen minutes early. ALWAYS. And she has no one's phone numbers because her list never reached her because her e-mail hasn't been working (M*crosoft - what is UP with that?) - and so by the time she reaches the trailhead, she is an HOUR LATE and none of her little lemmings are there, of course.
She has let them down!
-50 points!
Once at the trailhead, she debates trying to catch up with her charges and redeeming herself.She quickly gets ready but then reads the trail description (she might have done this MONTHS before, when she signed up to lead this trip, but never mind that). It says something about "confusing trails criss-crossing eachother."
She decides, that under the circumstances, even as the stalwart Trip Leader, she is not up to navigating this 11-mile trail by herself. Who knows if they're up there anyway? Of course, she has enough clothes in her backpack to see her through a three-day snowstorm, even though it is 90-degrees out, but BB accepts her limitations.
+10 points!
She searches out an easier trail, determined that, though she is a failure as a trip leader, the day shall not be a waste!
+5 points!
She of course hikes a half-mile in wrong direction on a deserted forest service road, where Deliverance-type hillbillies no doubt hide in the bushes, to find this other hike before realizing she has gone the wrong way.
-5 points!
When she realizes her mistake, BB runs half-mile back to car so as not to be accosted by hiding hillbillies. She makes it safely.
+5 points!
Determined, now, to find this trail at all costs, she gets into her car, drives a few hundred yards, and turns where she thinks the trail should be. The road dead-ends, naturally, into a deserted horse camp where bullet-ridden beer cans lay strewn about the ground. Deliverance theme plays in background.
-5 points!
BB and the Subaru hightail it out of there, and then, more determined then ever, make the next turn - though it's unmarked. They head down a rough road, and the Subaru gets to strut it's stuff for 200 yards - 4- wheelin' whoo-hoo! - which makes the Subaru happy because it usually just gets to commute on Highway 520, and then the two of them pull into a parking area - and --
It's completely deserted.
But there is a trail, and it's as described, and though BB hesitates to hike alone on a clearly deserted trail, at least she has supplies to see her through an entire winter, and of course an entire camera crew following along, so she sets forth.
And what do you know, but BB makes it to the destination - a fabulous viewpoint of her favorite mountain, Mt. Rainier (+10 points!) - where she soaks up the sun, enjoys the solitude and wonders why she doesn't hike alone more often.
Because she can't read a map, that's why.
But the trail has no tricky turns, and she makes it back down alive, and she and the Subaru 4-wheel it back to Seattle without making a single wrong turn.
+10 points!
But BB still has negative 20 points, so she's booted off the show in favor of the next navigationally-challenged cutie. So stay tuned for the next episode of "Lost! In the Wild!"
Ok, here's an idea for a new reality show. It's called "Lost! In the Wild!" and the premise is they send navigationally-challenged cuties alone into the wilderness and see if they make it back alive.
Let's just say the first victim - er- star - is moi, Breakup Babe, who, you might recall, while also being a glamorpuss about town, is also a stud mountaineer. But, alas, she has always been helped along in her studliness by various men, who drive her to the trailhead, make sure she doesn't take wrong turns into a crevasse, and encourage her when she cries at the hard parts.
On this particular day, BB sets out jauntily from Seattle to lead a hike. This is funny for a number of reasons, not least that BB cannot for the life of her, read a map. You'd think that the venerable Mountaineers, for whom she is guiding this trip might have done a background check, but nooo.
So BB is toodling along in her little green Subaru, NO GUY IN SIGHT, to lead this group of waiting hikers up to some Godforsaken peak near Mt. Rainier (she only hopes that one of THEM is male and read a map.) She leaves town a little late, of course, but makes good time, and then -- the camera does a close up here -- she realizes she has missed the turnoff to Highway 169 or whatever stupid highway she was supposed to take. Damn it! She pulls off at the next exit, gets directions from a friendly convenience store clerk, who tells her no, no go to Highway 167 instead - it's right there, past the WalMart, the RV Park, and the gun shop.
A little tense now, BB finds Highway 167 near the gunshop, as instructed, but then is faced with a turnoff she didn't expect. Highway 410? That's the one to Mt. Rainier, right? Never mind that BB has been to Mt. Rainier gazillions of times. She has climbed
it - lest you forget. But there has always been some GUY driving.
She gets on Highway 410, but then quickly gets off, thinking she has gone the wrong way - never mind that Rainier is looming brilliantly on the horizon - and thus begins a 45-minute, increasingly desperate tour through the streets of Puyallup. It involves getting directions at least twice more (once from a woman with a barely understandable Chinese accent); ending up at back on Highway 5 going the wrong direction; until finally, she gets back on Highway 410, where she was supposed to be all along.
By now she running late. Very late. Mountaineer leaders are never late. They are fifteen minutes early. ALWAYS. And she has no one's phone numbers because her list never reached her because her e-mail hasn't been working (M*crosoft - what is UP with that?) - and so by the time she reaches the trailhead, she is an HOUR LATE and none of her little lemmings are there, of course.
She has let them down!
-50 points!
Once at the trailhead, she debates trying to catch up with her charges and redeeming herself.She quickly gets ready but then reads the trail description (she might have done this MONTHS before, when she signed up to lead this trip, but never mind that). It says something about "confusing trails criss-crossing eachother."
She decides, that under the circumstances, even as the stalwart Trip Leader, she is not up to navigating this 11-mile trail by herself. Who knows if they're up there anyway? Of course, she has enough clothes in her backpack to see her through a three-day snowstorm, even though it is 90-degrees out, but BB accepts her limitations.
+10 points!
She searches out an easier trail, determined that, though she is a failure as a trip leader, the day shall not be a waste!
+5 points!
She of course hikes a half-mile in wrong direction on a deserted forest service road, where Deliverance-type hillbillies no doubt hide in the bushes, to find this other hike before realizing she has gone the wrong way.
-5 points!
When she realizes her mistake, BB runs half-mile back to car so as not to be accosted by hiding hillbillies. She makes it safely.
+5 points!
Determined, now, to find this trail at all costs, she gets into her car, drives a few hundred yards, and turns where she thinks the trail should be. The road dead-ends, naturally, into a deserted horse camp where bullet-ridden beer cans lay strewn about the ground. Deliverance theme plays in background.
-5 points!
BB and the Subaru hightail it out of there, and then, more determined then ever, make the next turn - though it's unmarked. They head down a rough road, and the Subaru gets to strut it's stuff for 200 yards - 4- wheelin' whoo-hoo! - which makes the Subaru happy because it usually just gets to commute on Highway 520, and then the two of them pull into a parking area - and --
It's completely deserted.
But there is a trail, and it's as described, and though BB hesitates to hike alone on a clearly deserted trail, at least she has supplies to see her through an entire winter, and of course an entire camera crew following along, so she sets forth.
And what do you know, but BB makes it to the destination - a fabulous viewpoint of her favorite mountain, Mt. Rainier (+10 points!) - where she soaks up the sun, enjoys the solitude and wonders why she doesn't hike alone more often.
Because she can't read a map, that's why.
But the trail has no tricky turns, and she makes it back down alive, and she and the Subaru 4-wheel it back to Seattle without making a single wrong turn.
+10 points!
But BB still has negative 20 points, so she's booted off the show in favor of the next navigationally-challenged cutie. So stay tuned for the next episode of "Lost! In the Wild!"
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
All right, I have to admit it. Yours truly is down.
And why?! Is my brain chemistry whacked or what? I mean, I'm on all sorts of Happy Drugs already; the last thing I want to do is take any more.
On the way to work today, I recited a litany of things to cheer me up, you know, like they tell you do in the motivational tapes.
-I have an agent!
-I'm hot!
-I'm healthy!
-I'm wealthy*
-I'm fabulous!
This cheered me up for all of five minutes, until I got into my flourescent lit office, when my good mood quickly slithered back down into whatever dank, dark hole it's been living in.
But it's no wonder, really, that I'm down, despite being so fabulous. I am now dealing with my two most feared and hated emotions in life: boredom and loneliness.
WHAT you say? How could you be bored?? Lonely?? You travel the world at the drop of a hat! You have numerous admirers! You could have social engagements every night of the week if you wanted to! You have the most exciting life of anyone I know! No kids, diapers, whiny boyfriends or going-to-seed husbands to tie you down!
I just am, OK. And maybe I need more drugs, or maybe I just have to admit this little truth to myself and try to accept it:
I'm down because I've tried so hard for the last two years to fall in love again and it hasn't worked. And I really *miss* having something to be with.
That's a valid enough excuse to be down, isn't it? No matter how fabulous you are?
Meanwhile, out of boredom naturally, I've resurrected my nerve.com personals ad, because GEE WHIZ, I haven't had a date in weeks! (is it any wonder I'm bored??) And for the life of me, I could not figure out how to change my profile and lie about my advanced age, so no doubt I'll be hearing only from 65-year olds and 23-year olds - since all men my age specify that they want to date women ages 22-24. That's why I swore I'd never do the online personals again, but my oath lasted all of one week.
Meanwhile, I hope to make my rock n' roll debut at Crossroads Mall in Bellevue next week. Now if that isn't a glamorous locale, I don't know what is. Should garner me a few 15-year old groupies, at least.
(Oh, and by the way, thanks for asking - the Captain was mercifully absent from the bus last night.)
*If wealth is relative, that is.
And why?! Is my brain chemistry whacked or what? I mean, I'm on all sorts of Happy Drugs already; the last thing I want to do is take any more.
On the way to work today, I recited a litany of things to cheer me up, you know, like they tell you do in the motivational tapes.
-I have an agent!
-I'm hot!
-I'm healthy!
-I'm wealthy*
-I'm fabulous!
This cheered me up for all of five minutes, until I got into my flourescent lit office, when my good mood quickly slithered back down into whatever dank, dark hole it's been living in.
But it's no wonder, really, that I'm down, despite being so fabulous. I am now dealing with my two most feared and hated emotions in life: boredom and loneliness.
WHAT you say? How could you be bored?? Lonely?? You travel the world at the drop of a hat! You have numerous admirers! You could have social engagements every night of the week if you wanted to! You have the most exciting life of anyone I know! No kids, diapers, whiny boyfriends or going-to-seed husbands to tie you down!
I just am, OK. And maybe I need more drugs, or maybe I just have to admit this little truth to myself and try to accept it:
I'm down because I've tried so hard for the last two years to fall in love again and it hasn't worked. And I really *miss* having something to be with.
That's a valid enough excuse to be down, isn't it? No matter how fabulous you are?
Meanwhile, out of boredom naturally, I've resurrected my nerve.com personals ad, because GEE WHIZ, I haven't had a date in weeks! (is it any wonder I'm bored??) And for the life of me, I could not figure out how to change my profile and lie about my advanced age, so no doubt I'll be hearing only from 65-year olds and 23-year olds - since all men my age specify that they want to date women ages 22-24. That's why I swore I'd never do the online personals again, but my oath lasted all of one week.
Meanwhile, I hope to make my rock n' roll debut at Crossroads Mall in Bellevue next week. Now if that isn't a glamorous locale, I don't know what is. Should garner me a few 15-year old groupies, at least.
(Oh, and by the way, thanks for asking - the Captain was mercifully absent from the bus last night.)
*If wealth is relative, that is.
Monday, June 14, 2004
I am about to take the 6:53 bus back to Seattle from Godforsaken Microsoftville, and no DOUBT I will run into The Captain on the bus, and will have to either:
1)pretend not to see him
2)smile politely then sit in another seat
3)sit next to him, suck it up, and feel like sh*t when I get off the damn bus
4)sit next to him, throw myself upon him, and say, WHY WHY WHY don't you want to be my boyfriend?
Please Lord, save me from the boredom of having no romantic interests, the boredom that makes me dream about my former dead-end boyfriends.
Better yet, save me from having to sit next to them on the bus!
1)pretend not to see him
2)smile politely then sit in another seat
3)sit next to him, suck it up, and feel like sh*t when I get off the damn bus
4)sit next to him, throw myself upon him, and say, WHY WHY WHY don't you want to be my boyfriend?
Please Lord, save me from the boredom of having no romantic interests, the boredom that makes me dream about my former dead-end boyfriends.
Better yet, save me from having to sit next to them on the bus!
Wednesday, June 9, 2004
Funny, just the other night I ran into the first boy I ever wrote about on the blog.
And know me and my big mouth. There I was with my laptop about to walk into the Elysian alone, so I had to give some justification for my apparently lonely lifestyle to this boy who's just moved in with his girlfriend.
"I hear you're working on a book," he says. "Based on some kind of...travel website?" I don't know where he's getting his information, and I really shouldn't correct him, but I do.
"No, a blog."
"Oh," he says "A travel blog?"
Then, before I can stop myself, "No, a dating blog."
"Ah," he says, never one to be fazed, "a dating blog." Pause. "Are you going to publish this book?" To his credit, he doesn't sound sarcastic or dubious. Just interested. He always was supportive when it came to creative endeavors.
And, because I am just a little too full of myself right now, because I've spent so many years telling people -- this one included - that I'm working on a book which has yet to materialize, I say,voice lowered to what I hope is an appropriately modest level.
"Well, I have been offered a contract by literary agent." (Never mind that I haven't actually signed it yet and that aforementioned agent may have already decided to dump me, but that's another story.)
"Really?" he says. "That's great." And to his credit again, this boy - who is also a writer and who has also struggled to make a living as one - sounds like he means it.
Little did I think, however, that my bragging would prompt him to e-mail me the next day and ask for the address of my blog. Doh.
And I had to say no, because even though I wrote about him only once, I'm too embarrassed to have him read it, plus I said some unkind things, and -- well, he was pissed off that I wouldn't tell him where it was.
You'd think, after all this time, I would have learned to keep my mouth shut. I've gotten better, I really have! But not good enough apparently. Because, it makes people awfully nervous to hear the phrase, "You'll just have to wait til the book comes out."
But you know what? Though not nearly as menacing as it sounds, it's a damn fun thing to say.
And know me and my big mouth. There I was with my laptop about to walk into the Elysian alone, so I had to give some justification for my apparently lonely lifestyle to this boy who's just moved in with his girlfriend.
"I hear you're working on a book," he says. "Based on some kind of...travel website?" I don't know where he's getting his information, and I really shouldn't correct him, but I do.
"No, a blog."
"Oh," he says "A travel blog?"
Then, before I can stop myself, "No, a dating blog."
"Ah," he says, never one to be fazed, "a dating blog." Pause. "Are you going to publish this book?" To his credit, he doesn't sound sarcastic or dubious. Just interested. He always was supportive when it came to creative endeavors.
And, because I am just a little too full of myself right now, because I've spent so many years telling people -- this one included - that I'm working on a book which has yet to materialize, I say,voice lowered to what I hope is an appropriately modest level.
"Well, I have been offered a contract by literary agent." (Never mind that I haven't actually signed it yet and that aforementioned agent may have already decided to dump me, but that's another story.)
"Really?" he says. "That's great." And to his credit again, this boy - who is also a writer and who has also struggled to make a living as one - sounds like he means it.
Little did I think, however, that my bragging would prompt him to e-mail me the next day and ask for the address of my blog. Doh.
And I had to say no, because even though I wrote about him only once, I'm too embarrassed to have him read it, plus I said some unkind things, and -- well, he was pissed off that I wouldn't tell him where it was.
You'd think, after all this time, I would have learned to keep my mouth shut. I've gotten better, I really have! But not good enough apparently. Because, it makes people awfully nervous to hear the phrase, "You'll just have to wait til the book comes out."
But you know what? Though not nearly as menacing as it sounds, it's a damn fun thing to say.
Sunday, June 6, 2004
You'll be happy to know my emotional rollercoaster has smoothed out a bit, without me even having to hit the Xanax! Of course, I've been toting it around everywhere I go, and can't leave the house without it - but that's immaterial. It's merely rattling around in my purse for security.
It's like that time I was training for a triathlon in Lake Washington seven years ago. After a rather embarrassing episode, which we shall not dwell on, which involved a panic attack, me being hauled back to shore on some Baywatch-like water scooter driven by a hot female lifeguard who scolded me for swimming out past the shallow end when I was so clearly incompetent, I realized that swimming out into open water, alone, was not the brightest thing for me to do.
Not because I wasn't a good swimmer, mind you. I was - and - am, a sturdy and strong in the water, if rather slow. My sister got the swimming genes in the family - thoughlet's not forget Li'l Sis - how I beat you in our impromptu little race in Hawaii!
No, it's just that I am prone to overthink things. Like what am I doing out here a quarter mile from shore where I could forget how to swim and sink like a stone without anyone seeing me?! Or, to use another, more recent example, what am I doing here being 36 and unmarried without a single prospect and signing a contract with a literary agent who will no doubt find out I am a fraud!!
Whereas, if I just swam along, living in the moment, I would feel how strong and capable I was, how fit and healthy, without noticing the vastness of space around me in which I could so easily drown.
So,I enlisted a male admirer - with a canoe - for my final triathlon training session. For a full half-mile, he paddled beside me, and for a full half-mile I swam along, knowing the canoe was there if I needed it, and therefore never needing it.
And the triathlon? Well, there were at least a dozen "rescue" canoes lining the swim route, and although I did have to stop and cling to one in a brief panic when some bitch kicked me in the face trying to get her fat a*s ahead of mine, I nonetheless completed the race in a very respectable 500th place out of a 1000 (or something like that.)
Thus ends the extended metaphor about canoes and Xanax.
Now, moving on. For those of you who wanted the "details" of my weekend with Sporty Architect Boy, I'm going to have to disappoint you. I know one of the worst crimes a writer can commit is to fail to deliver on the details of a story, but I think the problem here is that there was never a story in the first place.
I tried to make a story out of it. Because I was bored, and disappointed with The Captain, but it's not a story, it's more of an anecdote. An example of what not to do when dating - that is, get involved with someone just because they are attractive and you like the attention.
Ans so, the details aren't even interesting enough for me to relate, and if I were to try to relate them to you, you'd be bored too. So let's move on again, shall we?
In other news, I am now no longer recognizable after my hairdresser went crazy with the gold highlights today. And this was just after I was thinking to myself, maybe I'll go back to my black hair and stop all this money on highlights, which are only damaging to my hair anyway!
Well, maybe next time. At least I look "sun-kissed" for summer, which is just as well, since I doubt I'll be kissing any boys.
It's like that time I was training for a triathlon in Lake Washington seven years ago. After a rather embarrassing episode, which we shall not dwell on, which involved a panic attack, me being hauled back to shore on some Baywatch-like water scooter driven by a hot female lifeguard who scolded me for swimming out past the shallow end when I was so clearly incompetent, I realized that swimming out into open water, alone, was not the brightest thing for me to do.
Not because I wasn't a good swimmer, mind you. I was - and - am, a sturdy and strong in the water, if rather slow. My sister got the swimming genes in the family - though
No, it's just that I am prone to overthink things. Like what am I doing out here a quarter mile from shore where I could forget how to swim and sink like a stone without anyone seeing me?! Or, to use another, more recent example, what am I doing here being 36 and unmarried without a single prospect and signing a contract with a literary agent who will no doubt find out I am a fraud!!
Whereas, if I just swam along, living in the moment, I would feel how strong and capable I was, how fit and healthy, without noticing the vastness of space around me in which I could so easily drown.
So,I enlisted a male admirer - with a canoe - for my final triathlon training session. For a full half-mile, he paddled beside me, and for a full half-mile I swam along, knowing the canoe was there if I needed it, and therefore never needing it.
And the triathlon? Well, there were at least a dozen "rescue" canoes lining the swim route, and although I did have to stop and cling to one in a brief panic when some bitch kicked me in the face trying to get her fat a*s ahead of mine, I nonetheless completed the race in a very respectable 500th place out of a 1000 (or something like that.)
Thus ends the extended metaphor about canoes and Xanax.
Now, moving on. For those of you who wanted the "details" of my weekend with Sporty Architect Boy, I'm going to have to disappoint you. I know one of the worst crimes a writer can commit is to fail to deliver on the details of a story, but I think the problem here is that there was never a story in the first place.
I tried to make a story out of it. Because I was bored, and disappointed with The Captain, but it's not a story, it's more of an anecdote. An example of what not to do when dating - that is, get involved with someone just because they are attractive and you like the attention.
Ans so, the details aren't even interesting enough for me to relate, and if I were to try to relate them to you, you'd be bored too. So let's move on again, shall we?
In other news, I am now no longer recognizable after my hairdresser went crazy with the gold highlights today. And this was just after I was thinking to myself, maybe I'll go back to my black hair and stop all this money on highlights, which are only damaging to my hair anyway!
Well, maybe next time. At least I look "sun-kissed" for summer, which is just as well, since I doubt I'll be kissing any boys.
Thursday, June 3, 2004
Yours truly has been in a bit of a funk since she turned the big 3-6.
Not that there is any reason to be in a funk, except of course, the usual - will die old, alone, childless, locked up in sister's attic, etc etc.
In fact, some things are happening in my mid-mid-thirties that are, in a word, thrilling. Yours truly should be tap-dancing around Seattle, head thrown back and laughing, instead of slumped at my desk with my door closed and blinds shut so no one can see that I'm crying.
Well, one little thing has happened. I've been offered a contract by a literary agent. Oui. At last! After eight years of toil; and before that, six years of post-college agony and insecurity where I could barely put pen to paper; and before that a childhood spent knowing that I would be a Famous Writer (that is, unless I chose to be a Famous Singer, Famous Photographer, or Famous Supermodel).
So yes, in the moments where I'm supercharged with caffeine, and the sun is shining and San Francisco Bay shimmers over the next hill (as it did this weekend), I celebrate and think yes. I've finally done it. Or part of it anyway. After all, I still have to sell - and finish - the d*mn book.
But in other moments, when the caffeine has worn off, and my hair has been flattened by that San Francisco wind,and I am doubly sure Sporty Architect Boy is not the One, and that, in fact, no one will ever be The One, because I obviously have some kind of fatal flaw despite being beautiful and kind and all-around wonderful,and that yes, maybe I will one day be a Famous and Glamorous Author (because I certainly won't be a well-respected literary one), but what will it all be worth because I will be alone, alone, alone!
Unless of course, Jake Gyllenhall stars in Breakup Babe, The Movie, and I get hang out on the set in funky glasses and my chic new periwnkle poncho (so chic you might think it unfashionable) and he leaves that ditzy Kirsten Dunst for me.
So, for now, I am like the Seattle spring weather. Sunny and gay one minute, torrential rain the next - alternating with gray dull flatness and seguing back to sun.
All I can say is thank God for the pharmaceuticals.
Not that there is any reason to be in a funk, except of course, the usual - will die old, alone, childless, locked up in sister's attic, etc etc.
In fact, some things are happening in my mid-mid-thirties that are, in a word, thrilling. Yours truly should be tap-dancing around Seattle, head thrown back and laughing, instead of slumped at my desk with my door closed and blinds shut so no one can see that I'm crying.
Well, one little thing has happened. I've been offered a contract by a literary agent. Oui. At last! After eight years of toil; and before that, six years of post-college agony and insecurity where I could barely put pen to paper; and before that a childhood spent knowing that I would be a Famous Writer (that is, unless I chose to be a Famous Singer, Famous Photographer, or Famous Supermodel).
So yes, in the moments where I'm supercharged with caffeine, and the sun is shining and San Francisco Bay shimmers over the next hill (as it did this weekend), I celebrate and think yes. I've finally done it. Or part of it anyway. After all, I still have to sell - and finish - the d*mn book.
But in other moments, when the caffeine has worn off, and my hair has been flattened by that San Francisco wind,and I am doubly sure Sporty Architect Boy is not the One, and that, in fact, no one will ever be The One, because I obviously have some kind of fatal flaw despite being beautiful and kind and all-around wonderful,and that yes, maybe I will one day be a Famous and Glamorous Author (because I certainly won't be a well-respected literary one), but what will it all be worth because I will be alone, alone, alone!
Unless of course, Jake Gyllenhall stars in Breakup Babe, The Movie, and I get hang out on the set in funky glasses and my chic new periwnkle poncho (so chic you might think it unfashionable) and he leaves that ditzy Kirsten Dunst for me.
So, for now, I am like the Seattle spring weather. Sunny and gay one minute, torrential rain the next - alternating with gray dull flatness and seguing back to sun.
All I can say is thank God for the pharmaceuticals.
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