Remember that game you used to play because you were either an only child (like me) or your mother was a worry wort who wouldn't let you go outside (also me)? I called it "The Floor is Lava," but whatever you called it, it involved the same thing -- trapezial (is that a word? it is now) leaps and bounds from coffee table to couch to doggy bed to the corner of an abstract piece of art that my mom always knew I would touch and probably knock over. More likely than not knock over. (And you couldn't touch the floor)
Well, today felt like one big game of "The Floor is Lava," but instead of a game it was a rite of passage so agonizing that if I were becoming a man, I'd be alpha male by now. I guess that's an exaggeration. You see, I'm not a trapeze swinger -- my childhood leaps and bounds were often half-hearted, tentative tip-toes from armrest to armrest. I got very little air, is what I'm saying.
I'm much more adventurous now than when I was little, mostly because I didn't know that there was so much I could do. Now that I do, I don't want to spend another moment wondering whether I should or shouldn't try something. I learned the Big Do's and Don't's of life (strangers, fires and bears should be avoided, take care of yourself, treat people with respect and kill the mean ones with kindness, don't let your possessions own you, etc) when I was little -- my parents did good.
But the problem with the evolution of my openness is that I frequently regret not being more active. I'm not going to win a marathon, that goes without saying, but my dismal state of sedentarism also means I can't climb Ruby Mountain on my 23rd birthday without numerous stops and intermittent wheezing either.
So, to bury the point of this post, two days ago I went for a jog. Don't worry, I stretched, BUT I didn't stretch nearly enough. When I woke up yesterday, my calf muscles were knotted so tightly that they felt as if someone had implanted stones in there -- boulders hellbent on making it uncomfortable for me to sit ANYWHERE.
I called my friend and running man, Patrick, to ask about stretches I could do to remove the bulbous lumps from the back of my legs. He directed me to a website and gave me hints about stretching properly this time. I failed.
This morning, my legs mutinied as if I had voluntarily decided to cut them off. The second I jumped out of bed I realized that I was not able to stand upright; my legs wobbled beneath me and I crashed on my bedroom floor. When I finally stood up again, I had to walk on my tip toes all the way to the stairs, down them and to the kitchen. Even then they didn't let up and haven't -- these semi-stretched legs are holding a grudge that I have yet to repent for.
It is painful to sit on them, it is painful to bend them, it is painful to straighten them, it is painful to walk flat on my feet. So now I look like a short drunk model walking on coals, stumbling around my house on the balls of my feet, feeling what I can only describe as the physical reaction to someone grating violin strings, wondering if crawling would make it easier.
Nope, definitely doesn't.
So, I'm sorry legs. I'm sorry that I've wronged you, abused you. Darn that terrible terrible floor and its terrible terrible lava qualities. Too bad I can't blink myself back into my semi-warm cocoon of a bed.
Wish this sad little coal walker a speedy recovery...and share some tips for reintroducing flexibility into my brittle, unyielding body.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Night terrors are awkward around other people
I sleeptalk and sleepwalk when I'm anxious and I experience night terrors on the rare occasions when I am freaking the heck out. No panic attacks for me, no. My subconscious is going to work out whatever's bugging it on its own, using my body to illustrate against my will and usually without my knowledge. It's going to smack my worries in the face, even if that means putting me in a position where I physically get smacked in the face.
When I was four, I fell out of bed while chitchatting about cherries in an empty room. When I was five, I woke up to find a blonde woman in a red dress standing over me wielding a baseball bat (she subsequently popped like a soap bubble). When I was 14 and having problems with the girls on my swim team I terrified my mother with a late night one-sided conversation. I just kept saying "I understand, I understand" and when she asked me about it, I told her I was in the middle of my talk with "a man" and continued on, as if she had interrupted. It got to the point where I wished my mom would come in one night and actually find something talking to me -- like a giant pink rabbit or a hillbilly zombie. Then I could say, "See, my subconscious isn't crazy!"
I used to think acting out my dreams was pretty cool (actually, I still do), but that was before I got to college and realized that other people would witness it. Turns out "other people" are not as impressed by the misadventures of my unconscious.
During my freshman year at the University of Richmond, my lovely and tolerant roommate Chet'la coaxed me back into bed on more than one occasion and once I woke up standing barefoot (gross) in the communal bathroom (grosser) staring at a tall young man leaning out of a toilet cubicle who seemed completely unaware that I was not conscious. Chet'la also discovered that I undergo a personality transplant in my sleep -- Dr. Jekyll and Miss Bipolar.
In my second year, I went to live in the "Outdoor House," which, had it not been for the really cool English class attached to it, might have qualified as a step down from my first year dorm. I had a room to myself and only one real neighbor across the hall. During my time there, I had two night terrors -- one in which a giant tarantula tried to attach itself to my face and another in which my floor and the entire dorm building's floor was covered in cleaning liquid bottles. In both instances, I walked out of my room and proceeded to ramble on seriously to said neighbor about tarantulas and cleaning bottles and not wearing pants (I wasn't, either time -- yay me!).
The comedian Mike Birbiglia also "suffers" from sleepwalking and in his case he jumped out a 2nd story window and hit the ground running in his tighty whities. He now has to wear oven mitts and a sleep bag tied at the neck to bed. So as long as I don't end up like that, I think I'll continue to enjoy my body's inability to tell the different between dreams and reality.
When I was four, I fell out of bed while chitchatting about cherries in an empty room. When I was five, I woke up to find a blonde woman in a red dress standing over me wielding a baseball bat (she subsequently popped like a soap bubble). When I was 14 and having problems with the girls on my swim team I terrified my mother with a late night one-sided conversation. I just kept saying "I understand, I understand" and when she asked me about it, I told her I was in the middle of my talk with "a man" and continued on, as if she had interrupted. It got to the point where I wished my mom would come in one night and actually find something talking to me -- like a giant pink rabbit or a hillbilly zombie. Then I could say, "See, my subconscious isn't crazy!"
I used to think acting out my dreams was pretty cool (actually, I still do), but that was before I got to college and realized that other people would witness it. Turns out "other people" are not as impressed by the misadventures of my unconscious.
During my freshman year at the University of Richmond, my lovely and tolerant roommate Chet'la coaxed me back into bed on more than one occasion and once I woke up standing barefoot (gross) in the communal bathroom (grosser) staring at a tall young man leaning out of a toilet cubicle who seemed completely unaware that I was not conscious. Chet'la also discovered that I undergo a personality transplant in my sleep -- Dr. Jekyll and Miss Bipolar.
In my second year, I went to live in the "Outdoor House," which, had it not been for the really cool English class attached to it, might have qualified as a step down from my first year dorm. I had a room to myself and only one real neighbor across the hall. During my time there, I had two night terrors -- one in which a giant tarantula tried to attach itself to my face and another in which my floor and the entire dorm building's floor was covered in cleaning liquid bottles. In both instances, I walked out of my room and proceeded to ramble on seriously to said neighbor about tarantulas and cleaning bottles and not wearing pants (I wasn't, either time -- yay me!).
The comedian Mike Birbiglia also "suffers" from sleepwalking and in his case he jumped out a 2nd story window and hit the ground running in his tighty whities. He now has to wear oven mitts and a sleep bag tied at the neck to bed. So as long as I don't end up like that, I think I'll continue to enjoy my body's inability to tell the different between dreams and reality.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
The one thing that is many things
I'm not an easy person to know. Many people -- including all of my old bullies -- believe that they know me but they really have no clue and it's only half their fault.
It's far too easy to single out, ostracize, give unspoken approval to or obsess over someone you've spared one glance. But so many qualities go undiscovered, so many possibilities are lost, much to the detriment of the planet and our chance at happiness. And though several studies have claimed that our first impressions may be spot on, I remain unconvinced.
When I was little, I had few friends and was bullied often. I spent most of my time at home creating lives with Sarah and Teddy the brown bears, my most cherish toys. I had thousands of stuffed animals (all of which had little lives of their own), but I gave most away to children at a homeless shelter when I was 12 or 13. I ran away from home at least twice -- the first time my mother caught me, the second time the neighbors called to tell my parents that I had claimed their honeysuckle bush and was living under it.
I wrote my first story when I was five and it is, I'm not joking, pretty much what happens in the book Life of Pi, except all the animals lived together in peace and we never left Meerkat Island. We spent the rest of our long lives living like the Swiss family Robinson.
I started writing with a passion when I was 11 years old. I wrote my first screenplay in a wide-ruled school notebook; it filled every page. And things sort of snowballed after that. I discovered that my heart plays percussion to a steel drum band when I put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, and so I do as often as I can.
I live in a world of color, sound, silence and sensation. I like talking to people, even if they don't relish talking to me. I love travel because it's nice to know that there are places as beautiful as the strange worlds I dream about when I go to sleep and because the act of physically moving, of going some place new, is awe inspiring.
I'm so curious that I often alienate my parents and peers by forcing them to take a journey with me into the warehouse full of random facts that I have accumulated over the last 22 years. I can remember those strange tidbits better than I can remember almost anything else. And I don't mind that.
I can't eat meat because I think about the animal's life and how terrified it must be when it goes through the ordeal of being slaughtered. I don't fault anyone else for eating it, but I hate trophy hunters and poachers. I hope a rhino stomps them to death. (Oh, and I'm not enlightened yet)
I shoo flies and spiders out of the house, but worms will set my heart racing and my teeth on edge (I still save them when I see them sizzling on sidewalks, though). I try to see a situation from the perspectives of everyone involved before I offer an opinion on it. I'm often wrong and I'm okay with that. My opinion is rarely set in stone, because I always have something to learn.
I have a list of things to do and see in my life and I had it long before that mediocre movie The Bucket List came out, but I encourage everyone to make such a list and stick to it. Most of the things on mine have to do with writing, travel and enlightenment.
I can listen to music made by A.R. Rahman all day and if you want to cook me something, give me dal, aloo ghobi, pad thai or vegan pizza with roasted garlic and zucchini. I love to laugh until I cry. I believe in god -- just probably not yours. I finger paint and sculpt clay masks. 'Sculpt' is a good word. So is 'perspicacity.'
And here's the philosophy: I see the universe and everything in it as a giant ball of energy. We are not only all connected to each other and this planet, we are also dependent on and directly affected by the generosity, positive intention and action that we fill the world with. I'm not better than anyone and no one is better than me. I wish everyone as much kindness as they show to others and I treat others with the same benefit of the doubt that I hope they will extend to me. Because regardless of your religion, color, creed or class, we're in this together, folks. We can create or destroy, we can hate or love, we can be self righteous or we can understand. And, maybe, we can leave some room to be wrong.
It's far too easy to single out, ostracize, give unspoken approval to or obsess over someone you've spared one glance. But so many qualities go undiscovered, so many possibilities are lost, much to the detriment of the planet and our chance at happiness. And though several studies have claimed that our first impressions may be spot on, I remain unconvinced.
When I was little, I had few friends and was bullied often. I spent most of my time at home creating lives with Sarah and Teddy the brown bears, my most cherish toys. I had thousands of stuffed animals (all of which had little lives of their own), but I gave most away to children at a homeless shelter when I was 12 or 13. I ran away from home at least twice -- the first time my mother caught me, the second time the neighbors called to tell my parents that I had claimed their honeysuckle bush and was living under it.
I wrote my first story when I was five and it is, I'm not joking, pretty much what happens in the book Life of Pi, except all the animals lived together in peace and we never left Meerkat Island. We spent the rest of our long lives living like the Swiss family Robinson.
I started writing with a passion when I was 11 years old. I wrote my first screenplay in a wide-ruled school notebook; it filled every page. And things sort of snowballed after that. I discovered that my heart plays percussion to a steel drum band when I put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, and so I do as often as I can.
I live in a world of color, sound, silence and sensation. I like talking to people, even if they don't relish talking to me. I love travel because it's nice to know that there are places as beautiful as the strange worlds I dream about when I go to sleep and because the act of physically moving, of going some place new, is awe inspiring.
I'm so curious that I often alienate my parents and peers by forcing them to take a journey with me into the warehouse full of random facts that I have accumulated over the last 22 years. I can remember those strange tidbits better than I can remember almost anything else. And I don't mind that.
I can't eat meat because I think about the animal's life and how terrified it must be when it goes through the ordeal of being slaughtered. I don't fault anyone else for eating it, but I hate trophy hunters and poachers. I hope a rhino stomps them to death. (Oh, and I'm not enlightened yet)
I shoo flies and spiders out of the house, but worms will set my heart racing and my teeth on edge (I still save them when I see them sizzling on sidewalks, though). I try to see a situation from the perspectives of everyone involved before I offer an opinion on it. I'm often wrong and I'm okay with that. My opinion is rarely set in stone, because I always have something to learn.
I have a list of things to do and see in my life and I had it long before that mediocre movie The Bucket List came out, but I encourage everyone to make such a list and stick to it. Most of the things on mine have to do with writing, travel and enlightenment.
I can listen to music made by A.R. Rahman all day and if you want to cook me something, give me dal, aloo ghobi, pad thai or vegan pizza with roasted garlic and zucchini. I love to laugh until I cry. I believe in god -- just probably not yours. I finger paint and sculpt clay masks. 'Sculpt' is a good word. So is 'perspicacity.'
And here's the philosophy: I see the universe and everything in it as a giant ball of energy. We are not only all connected to each other and this planet, we are also dependent on and directly affected by the generosity, positive intention and action that we fill the world with. I'm not better than anyone and no one is better than me. I wish everyone as much kindness as they show to others and I treat others with the same benefit of the doubt that I hope they will extend to me. Because regardless of your religion, color, creed or class, we're in this together, folks. We can create or destroy, we can hate or love, we can be self righteous or we can understand. And, maybe, we can leave some room to be wrong.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
I can't be the only one who hates snow, right?
I'm trapped in a snow globe. Right now it is 23*F outside and the Weather Channel is telling me I can expect anywhere from 1-18 additional inches of snow on top of the four I already see. I refuse to go outside if it isn't completely necessary. The necessary things include getting my feeble dog when he forgets how to use the ramp we built for him and driving lessons. That's it. You couldn't get me out in the snow if I were dying of thirst...it'd take too long to melt any of it anyway.
I'm 22 years old and I dislike snow to an unconscionable degree. Rather, I dislike the cold and my dislike has driven me indoors semi-permanently this winter. I think I would love snow in summer weather, though.
Being stuck in New York State is not my idea of a good time, if only because there are very few jobs in this tiny town, it's snowing (the anti-spaghetti monster's work), and I do not have a driver's license. You see, I attended the University of Richmond in Virginia and I didn't need a car, so I never got my license. That means I'm playing catch up at 22, taking lessons and preparing for a road test during which I'll finally do battle with my cold, white, flurry nemesis.
I'm also planning a move down south and working on as many writing projects as I can dream up and squeeze into my day. And I promise that if I ever become successful as a screenwriter and offer to read scripts for people, there'll be a quick turn-around. All this waiting is more stressful than actually writing the darn things.
I'm 22 years old and I dislike snow to an unconscionable degree. Rather, I dislike the cold and my dislike has driven me indoors semi-permanently this winter. I think I would love snow in summer weather, though.
Being stuck in New York State is not my idea of a good time, if only because there are very few jobs in this tiny town, it's snowing (the anti-spaghetti monster's work), and I do not have a driver's license. You see, I attended the University of Richmond in Virginia and I didn't need a car, so I never got my license. That means I'm playing catch up at 22, taking lessons and preparing for a road test during which I'll finally do battle with my cold, white, flurry nemesis.
I'm also planning a move down south and working on as many writing projects as I can dream up and squeeze into my day. And I promise that if I ever become successful as a screenwriter and offer to read scripts for people, there'll be a quick turn-around. All this waiting is more stressful than actually writing the darn things.
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