I was awoken at 5:15 this morning by a pack of crazies. Think Night of the Living Dead, only a little bit later than night and a lot more frightening.
Okay, it was actually the neighborhood mommy brigade out on their “morning” walk. I know about them not because I have ever voluntarily gotten up that early, but rather because I have gone to bed that late. In fact, I have come face-to-face with the zombies mommies a time or two when I stumbled in from a late night out.
I do not think anything in the 5 a.m. range is morning, but let them call it what they will. Personally, I think they’re nuts. Oh, and they talk too loud.
I don’t have a lot of fond childhood memories of my family. Friends, sure. School, yes. Summer time, definitely. Just not many warm, fuzzy, feel-good family memories. My parents weren’t warm, fuzzy, feel-good people. It wasn’t an awful childhood, but it left a lot to be desired.
The occasional happy childhood memory makes me smile. It also makes me sad. I wish there had been more of those good memories, more positive moments to hang on to when being an adult feels like too much work. Unfortunately, the bad overshadows the good most of the time. But, you grow up and you move on and you don’t worry about it too much. It is what it is. I envy people whose memories of childhood are filled with love and comfort. That’s a wonderful thing, the kind of security that comes from getting a good start in the world.
I was thinking today about how we used to go to my grandmother’s house for Sunday dinner. That was not a warm, fuzzy, feel-good experience. More like peace talks between enemy nations that always ended in a shaky stand-off until the next Sunday. The trip to grandma’s set the tone for the evening-- my brother and me in the back seat, fighting; my parents in the front seat, fighting. Pretty family picture.
On the way home, though, it was different. Dark, quiet, miles of highway and nothing to do but curl up and go to sleep. I can remember pulling into our driveway some Sunday nights and faking being asleep so I wouldn’t have to get out and walk. More often than not, I’d get a nudge and a terse order to get in the house and go to bed if I was so tired. But once in awhile, my pretend sleeping was convincing enough that I was left alone and my father carried me in the house.
It’s really not much of a memory-- my father opening the car door and shifting my not-so-sleeping body into his arms and carrying me to my bedroom. Hardly something I should remember with such joy. But it was nice, those few moments between the car and my bed when I didn’t have to do anything for myself. Nice not having to worry about putting one foot in front of the other. Nice to be carried, though I was capable of walking. Nice to be taken care of.
I guess I’m thinking about that memory because I’ve been feeling so rundown the past few days and I wouldn’t mind letting someone else take care of me. It would be nice to be carried, just for a little while. (I mean that figuratively, of course. I wouldn’t want anyone to throw their back out.)
Sometimes being sick is a temporary break from the world, a time to be alone and slow down and recharge. And sometimes it’s just a reminder that I’m an adult and I have to take care of myself.
The world as we know it is changed forever. The earth is tilted on its axis. Hell is surely freezing over. I am using sick leave because I am unwell. Alert the media. Oh, never mind, they’re busy analyzing the social and moral ramifications of Janet’s nipple exposure in a post-Cold War society.
I’m taking a little sick leave break to get over whatever is making me feel like a kitten in a clothes dryer (there’s a visual, huh?). I’m sleeping like eighteen hours a day, but it’s all in ninety minute increments, it seems. I can’t do the math on that because I’m too tired, but basically I’m not sleeping well and it’s making me feel worse.
I’m a big believer in sleep as a restorative. Keep the drugs and give me ten solid hours of sleepy time and I usually feel better. I just can’t seem to get the rest I need thanks to my insomnia (I solve all the problems of the world while tossing and turning in my flannel sheets), the dog barking (at cars, other dogs, the wind, the voices in his furry little head) and lovely, wonderful people (some of whom are truly lovely and wonderful, they just have bad timing) who start calling me at nine in the morning and don’t stop calling until sometime in the middle of the night. It’s so nice to be popular.
Part of my problem is a lifelong illness for which I need to find a cure. I need to learn to say “no.” “No” to doing things I don’t have time and energy to do; “no” to people who will take everything I’ve got and leave me running on empty; “no” to anything that isn’t going to be good and positive for me. Maybe that’s selfish, maybe it’s just self-preservation. Elton had it wrong-- I can say “sorry” from now until forever, my problem is saying “no.” It can be, and has been, exhausting. Self-inflicted, but still exhausting.
Until I figure out how to say “no” in other areas of my life, I’m going to say “no” to work tomorrow. It’s a start.
Please explain to me why this is such a big deal. Is it because we still haven’t accepted that-- gasp-- women have breasts? Is it because she’s famous and it’s exciting to see a famous semi-naked breast that isn’t attached to a porn star and/or Demi Moore? Didn’t we already know Janet was augmented and pierced? Is it really that big a deal that we got to see proof? Is this getting so much coverage (no pun intended) because it’s been a slow news week and Madonna is holed up penning another children’s book?
What annoys the crap out of me is the claim that it was “an accident.” Give me a break. It was a staged display of semi-nudity (if you can tear your gaze away from Janet’s silcone-and-metal-enhanced breast, you will notice the snaps on the outfit that allowed the baring of her boobage) designed to stimulate some talk about the careers of a flagging pop star and one trying to change his baby-faced image. Yawn. Boring.
I want equality. I want Justin’s (or better, Nelly’s) pants to have a rip-away front. I want men to realize they are being marginalized because they insist on wearing baggy, unattractive clothing that leaves everything to the imagination. It’s time for you guys to take a stand! Strip down! Go public! Make the news! The poor guy who danced around in his g-string didn’t get any attention at all. That’s just wrong. Next time, he should ditch the g-string. Carrying Janet Jackson across the field might increase his air-time, too.
Now, who wants to talk about the truly accidental nudity after the playoff game a couple weeks ago? Oh… don’t know about that one, huh? I wonder why?
I haven’t written anything of any quality or substance this week, either here or for the deadlines I’ve been hoping to meet. Very disheartening and mostly my fault for being so distracted lately. As I stagger exhausted, aggravated and injured into February, I’m hoping life will improve.
Bye-bye January. You won’t be missed.
Life. Love. Writing. Friendship.
Sex. Books. Movies. Travel. Politics. Feminism. Academia. Insomnia. Rants. Raves. Chocolate. Lots of chocolate. Some names have been changed, some stories have been embellished. Thanks for stopping by and beware of the dog. Read more...
