Health and happiness and some shit like that

Lots has been happening the last month and year and, well, my whole life really and it's really had me considering the importance/non-importance of health and happiness and how those things really shape our (my) daily lives.

This is going to be one of those rambly long posts, the kind of writing that ambles about in the woods not really searching for a destination, but is really only looking at the trees and how tall they are and my gosh bark is crazy when you think about it and why are pine needles so different than leaves and squirrels are incredibly cute assholes.

Ahem.

Just like that.

As a follow up from my last post, I finally got in to see my primary care doctor at Kaiser and I can see why he's so hard to get an appointment with; the guy is a great doctor, just what you want in a doctor: firm but kind, asks lots of questions and actually listens to your answers and works to figure out how to make your feel better and/or ease your fears. I don't know the last time I had such a good experience with a doctor.

And he also addressed Dr. Bitchface and how she called me fat. He actually pulled out a chart and showed me where I fall on the scale of overall health and weight and showed me where most people are (Scary Land) and where I am (Not too bad at all). He encouraged me to exercise more, but said I'm actually in good shape and he's not worried about me.



Huge sigh of relief.

It's amazing how one person's, one expert's, opinion or reassurances can change your whole self perception. it's amazing how hearing you're doing a good job or you're not fucking up your life completely can make you feel better, can make getting through the rough shit easier.

Anyway, he ran a full blood panel and I go back in a couple weeks for imaging to see if I have any cysts or growths and then I follow up with him. Here's hoping.

It seems obvious that health and happiness go hand in hand, but I don't think most of us live that way. One is usually sacrificed for the other and it's rare that most people have even one. I always preach about balance and all that, but it doesn't always happen. I know that yoga or dance, etc., make me both physically and mentally happy, but when I can't afford classes, it's easier to just skip and say, "soon."

So what's more important? I'm not saying we just give up and I certainly try to find ways to exercise or whatever, but it's hard when you scrape by to do just what you live and the best things to be healthy and well.

And most of us don't live our dream lives, don't have the dream jobs and the dream houses and all those other accoutrements we pictured for ourselves. There's something to be said for being responsible and holding down that shitty job and smiling through the stress and paying rent on that crappy apartment, because that's adulthood and that's responsibility and that's just life.

I have nothing but respect for those who do what they have to. My dad always did and I'd like to think I do too.

Or maybe those things are easier if one just feels a little fulfilled by their work, feels accomplishment, feels appreciated and valued in what they do regardless if what they do is what they want or not. Just knowing you're important and valauable is enough to feel a little satisfaction.

But is that really happiness? Where does happiness come in? In this world of pleasures and art and beauty are we not the least bit deserving of some happiness? How do we make time for joy? Is that only a privilege of the rich? How else does one pursue their dreams if they don't have the resources to fund them?



Or maybe that's only the life of Europeans. Maybe I have to live in Italy or Montmartre to have la belle vie.

I'd love nothing more than to abandon the 8 to 5, live that bohemian life, to spend my days making art, taking photos and painting and writing, traveling, eating and loving. But who can afford to do that?

They say money can't buy happiness, but it sure affords the time to pursue it. But maybe if I could afford all the time, I wouldn't appreciate what little there is.

Now, don't misunderstand. I've had my fair share of bold moves in the search for joy and I've had and do have joy, happiness, love. Hell, I quit my job and moved to another state without a job and without knowing more than 3 people there. And there are days when I get homesick and I question my decisions. Don't we all? But every move I've made, I've made for me and so that's gotta be good.




And this has been a big year too. Over a year ago, I wandered into a bar where I didn't know a soul, planted myself on a barstool, made new friends who would then introduce me to Eminem. I can't believe it's been a year. He and I are coming up on our anniversary in a couple weeks, counting of course from the night I took him home and not from our first date. Guess which came first?

Sometimes I think my whole purpose in life is to debunk ideas of appropriate female sexual behavior.

Anyway, we're coming up on a year and we're talking about getting a place together in the fall (damned budgets and leases) and I can say with absolute conviction that he makes me happy. Maybe that makes me a bad feminist or a bad therapy patient or something. Yes, no one else can *make* us happy, sure; we have to make ourselves happy. Blah blah blah. I can probably go back and link up all the posts where I've written just that.

But he does. He does. So there. Suck it, psychology.

There are a million little things that he does that make me happy. His existence in the world makes me happy. It makes me happy that he loves me and it makes me happy to love him. He appreciates me and who I am and that makes me happy too.



Is this scary as shit? Fuck yes. Do I feel totally safe with him and therefore even more scared than one would think? Am I worried that it will all come crashing down and this huge bundle of happiness we have will all blow away? Absofuckinglutely. But the scariest things always feel the best, don't they? Hell yes they do. That's what's so awesome about it.

Because I'm happy and so it's worth it. Happiness. Funny thing, that.

And despite my doctor's lack of worry about my weight, the fact remains that I'm carrying more weight than I ever have and I'm pretty sure it's because I'm happy and in love. Literally fat and happy, if you will.

I can accept being curvier if I get love. Maybe I could also have a life full of art too? Is that asking too much?

In other news

Oh my gourd, Internet, it has been two whole weeks since we last talked and so much has happened! I have no idea where to start so I guarantee this post will be disjointed, rambly, and altogether random.

Let's begin!

A few days ago, I almost died. For reals. And it was so scary that I cannot stop telling the story.

I was walking in a crosswalk in downtown Portland, on a green, clearly having of the right of way, when a big SUV barrels around the corner going pretty fast. Clearly they weren't looking and they weren't going to stop either. I had to run to get out of the way and they missed me by maybe a foot. And they just kept going! Never even paused. Probably never even saw me. If I hadn't been paying attention, I'd be roadkill right now.

On the upside, I am loving my new place! Hobbes is happier there and it's so nice to see him sitting all over the furniture and watching out the windows. I know the tension in my old place affected him too. Bitch roomie did try to fuck up my happiness again but it's all settled now. I don't even want to get into it, suffice to say she's leaving me alone for good and I never want to see or think about her again.

There is one major lesson I got to relearn because of all this though: One's happiness is the most important thing. I'm not talking about making sacrifices or doing what needs to be done, etc etc etc. I'm talking about not putting oneself into situations that are not only happiness suckers but unnecessary and I'm talking about setting aside one's attachment to pride and money and all those other things we place before happiness.

I am confident that had I had to go to court over this drama, I could have made a damn good case and I would have won. But did I want this to drag out months and months? No. I know I didn't have to pay any more money but did it make the problem go away? Yes. Sure, I handled it legally and covered my ass, but when it comes right down to it, money is just money. It's not worth as much as my happiness. And my pride? Not worth as much as my happiness. I don't need to prove I was right. I don't need to win anything. What I needed to do was walk away and put the whole thing behind me. Worth it.

So that's over. Hoorah! Let's all drink to that.

And I got my tax return so I have money again! I may have gone a little crazy at the grocery store buying luxury foods I've been denying myself for the sake of my measly budget. Hey, after weeks of baked potatoes (which I do love) and soup, how can a girl resist ice cream and chips and gluten free cookies? I guarantee it will all be gone in a few more minutes. And then I'll have to buy fat clothes.

Oh and I had the weirdest night the other night. So I'm hanging out at my new fave bar with my new friends and ex new guy is there, which was inevitable and which was also awkward awkward awkward as all holy hell. But that was okay for the most part.

But there's this other guy in the group that I am interested in so he and I are talking and flirting and that's all great. Then the roommate of an ex boyfriend walks in and he and I talk a bit and I'm looking around to make sure that ex isn't there too (wasn't, thank the lard), but it's just a bit weird and coincidental at this point.

THEN, this other guy walks in, a guy I went on a date with forever ago and it was NOT a good date. Like probably on the list of worst dates list ever in the world. But it doesn't end there. Turns out Bad Date is friends with my new friends. But wait. There's more. He comes over to me, sticks out his hand, and goes, "Hi, I'm Bad Date." (See what I did there?). And I go, "I know, we went on a date once.

You should have seen his face. It was like an episode of Friends. You know the one.

And, truthfully, it seemed like he felt really badly for not remembering me and to be fair, I look quite a bit different now. He was like, "I take it it wasn't a good date?" And I was like, "Yeahno." It took him all night to remember and he apologized and we had a good laugh. But holy fuck, people! Really?

So not only were all the men I've ever dated in Portland converging in one bar one night (that could be a good book plot) but one didn't even remember me. Awesome. Thank heaven that HP didn't walk in and complete the circle of awkward. Plus, now I'll have dated like 3 guys in this group. I'm that girl. Oh joy.

And yes, you read that right, I said 3. Which means it's going well with the other guy I was flirting with, who we'll call Eminem (even though he's nothing like Mr. Mathers in any way really). I'm gonna keep this under wraps for a while but I'll just say we had a lot of fun.

Oh and I cut off all my hair! I donated ten whole inches to Locks of Love.

Holding my locks

The stylist was super sweet too. He was like, "some bald kid is gonna look gooood now." Which is so wrong but so funny. I do have lots of hair, or, I did anyway.

Anyway, here's my hair now:

I realize I'm a huge dork. That's why I included an artsy shot too.

So I must stop myself there. How've you been, Internet?

happy-like

In the wake of a shitty week, I still have things that are making me happy.

In no particular order:

Rainy Portland Sunday mornings spent sleeping-in in my cozy, warm bed, dreaming of the night before and unreservedly fantasizing.

Great dates. With thus far great guys. Who are smart and too handsome to be so humble and great kissers too. And who are seemingly too well suited to me to be real.

Pizza places that serve gluten free pizza by the slice and have wifi. Oh, and a great happy hour every day of the week. Instant happiness.

Really sweet bartenders who remember my name and shave money off my tab. See also: finding new karaoke bars where I am destined to become a regular.

Cucumber white tea. A revelation that is.

Random strangers who hold the door open for me.

My best friends and family who even when only available by text or facebook, always boost my ego and send me endless love and support.

Great coworkers (and a great boss) who take me out for drinks when I'm stressed out about going home.

Hard cider. It's a gluten free salvation.

Nice dudes who, when like an idiot I drop my camera and break my flash, get it fixed for me without my even asking.

Did I mention the gluten free pizza?

Hoping I see said great guy again soon.

the wearing of the red

The point of this post is meant to be happy, but I'm in a fairly cranky state due to my drinking entirely too much for the third weekend in a row, thus incurring a most evil hangover. My head is just doing that womp womp womp and I kind of want to rip it off and trade it in for a better one. Maybe one with better eyesight and less sensitive skin, while I'm at it.

Point being? This post may turn out a little manic.

Incidentally, mulled wine is an incredible invention. As my friend Kim put it, it's like Christmas sangria. And that is the damn truth.

Anywayyy, as I mentioned last week, I've been really focusing on what I need and want, etc, focusing on what makes me happypants.

The first things I did were easy, but make a huge difference.

I started wearing more red. Why? Well, chickadees, I'll tell you why. Most importantly, red looks great on me. I wear bold colors well if I do say so myself. Plus, red is the color of bravado. Red is the color of fuck yeah I'm awesome and you can fuck off if you're too much of an idiot to know it and walk away from alllll this. mmhmmm. That's right. This lady is smart and funny and looks hot in red lipstick and red lace panties too. Yup, red lip gloss, red nails. I bought a new red scarf and matching gloves.

Then! And this is the exciting one....I changed my hair!

Wait...here's a before:

And here I am at the Aveda Institute getting my herr did (LOVE that place!):

 

When you have as much hair as I do, you get the royal treatment

 

Waiting for my hair color to process

 

Right after

Then, I went home for two days and decided I wanted more bangs and trimmed the sides myself. This could have been BAD, but turned out awesome. Because I AM awesome after all. Dur. Haven't you been paying attention? 

Here's the hair last night at the epic Ugly Christmas Sweater party (where I drank all that delicious mulled wine):

 

Christmas threw up on me

I know it looks good because Johnny, the approximately 65 year old concierge (and a shameless flirt) in my building told me I looked hot. He also called me Marlo Thomas. 

 

I'll take it.

He was also super impressed I knew who Marlo Thomas is. But, like I said, I'm awesome.

So I bet you're thinking that after the red and the hair, there's really nothing left, but I assure you, you're wrong. So very wrong.

I've been working out as much as I can (which I would like to be more, but getting into a routine is a challenge) at the free gym in my building. I really wanted to join 24 Hour Fitness but the 24 gods hate me and it's looking like that's not meant to be. I can't even explain; it would take too long. 

Plus, there's the art. I've been really trying to bring art back into my life, taking as many photos as I can, when I can, and visiting museums and places with cool architecture. 

A couple of weekends ago, I spent an entire day in Portland Art Museum and had the best time. I hadn't been before because I was being really snobby and judgey. See, PAM charges 15 smackers to get in. And I'm like, I paid less to get in the damn Louvre (of course, I was an art history student at the time, so I got in for free.) and I paid $10 at LACMA to see Lichtensteins and Warhols, why would I pay $15 to get into Portland's dinky museum? 

Well, hit me with the asshole stick because it's an awesome museum. They have quite a few Impressionists, including Rodin, Van Gogh, and Monet. They had a small Titien on display (though not my fave of his) and they have an entire building for modern art (which really gets me happy) including a Chihuly and Rothko. 

Plus? I took my camera. And what I love about museums which let you shoot (hehe) is that it challenges my photography skills in so many ways. One, it's a blast to make new art out of other art, capturing installations from different angles or in front of paintings. But also, the lighting in museums is so changeable and not always conducive to photography that it really keeps me working hard to get any decent shots. Needless to say, so much fun. 

 It's ME

 It also inspired me to get painting again. I haven't painted since I was a kid, mostly because I got discouraged when my skills didn't match what an instructor asked of me. I'm never going to be the girl who paints a still life or a portrait. It's not what I like and not what I'm good at. What I do love are textures. So I'm interested in getting into some abstract work that plays with texture and mixed mediums. It will take a while, because spendy, but I can't wait.

Oh and funny story. I go to the museum cafe to get a tea and I notice these little gluten free granola bars next to the register. The girl then tells me that they also have a gluten free cupcake. Yes. And I say, "I don't remember the last time I had a cupcake!" And she says, "Well then you need it." And so I got it. 

It was pure, decadent, moist, sweet, blissful heaven. I think I frightened the other museum patrons as I devoured the cupcakey goodness.  And do you see the sparkles? The sparkles! THE SPARKLES!

Sigh.

And that's just for starters. I've also been drinking too much wine. That counts right?

a little bit lost

I feel like I'm losing myself. I'm not sure where I went, but I can't quite find myself again.

I've always said that I met myself during my travels and, if that's true, maybe it becomes easy to lose oneself when you stay stagnant. I haven't really traveled in a long time. I'm not talking about my trip to California, I'm talking about truly traveling, experiencing somewhere new, meeting a new place and tasting its cuisine. I miss sitting in a foreign cafe, drinking some local tea or coffee, listening to live music, and soaking in the pure, raw experience.

But beyond that, I don't really do anything that I love anymore. Not personally anyway. I never write, I hardly ever take photos. I used to wander the streets taking photos of anything I spied, coming home to an impossible amount of film to sift through. I took photos on my vacation, but hardly any before or since. I don't ever write anymore, blogs or essays or poetry.

I don't create with words. Hell, I don't create anything. I suspect my creative muscle is atrophying.

I barely recall the last time I danced.

So if what you do is who you are, who am I? Am I someone new? Someone who can't bring herself to just create something, anything?

Where are the streets to wander and why don't I look for them? Where are the hours of sublime nothing, spent only with earbuds and a camera or a book and a cup of tea? Where are the minutes of delicious inspiration? Why did I let that go and how do I find it again?

When people ask me about myself, especially at work, where folks are all about the numbers and the selling techniques, I say, "I'm a creative." It's what's essential to the core of who and what I am. But can I honestly say that anymore...when I don't actually create?

All I know is it's causing me pervasive sadness, sadness that creeps in when I least expect it, ruining whatever happy moment I'd been enjoying, as if I'm grieving some friend who died too young. I resent myself for letting this loss happen. I feel immense guilt at just watching this girl waste away and doing. absolutely. nothing.

Nevertheless, I just sit here, motionless, somewhere beyond apathetic.

And yet.

And yet.

These thoughts ran through my head tonight over and over, like a long train that just won't end, and, instead of pushing them aside in favor of sweet, sweet sleep, I got up, pulled out my laptop, and wrote.

Duh, you snort, with the disdain of a thirteen year old.

You know I wrote. Obviously. But I haven't done that in a long time, chosen to write instead of whatever else beckoned me. I stopped and I wrote. I laid my thoughts to paper and I created.

That has to be a start.

A Little Tease

*sigh*

The only thing I want to talk about, I'm not supposed to talk about. I'm sworn to secrecy lest I jinx it by mocking the universe with my garish happiness.

Buuuut I aaaam happy (said in my whiniest voice)! I am dammit. Unbelievably, magically happy. Deliriously happy.

See also: dense that I didn't snatch this up before. But clearly karma has its own time line because the only explanation is that my good karma is kicking in. Can't rush karma, obv.

GAH! I can't say anymore. Trust me, people, good things. Only good things. Gooey, afterglowy, good things.

a vague hint of proof of said happiness

Only Happiness

Well, Internet, I am one busy bee. I wasn't even going to post tonight but I don't imagine that I'll have another moment for a while.

How about the Super Bowl huh? I was worried for a little bit, but the Saints took over and there will be partyin' in the Quarter for weeks. It was pretty much awesome! I, however, spent the last 6 minutes or so of the game itching like a madwoman as I accidentally ingested soy, which is my allergy nemesis. I am very careful, but I didn't think to grill the nice guy who made beef jerky as to what was in his marinade (honestly didn't even know you could make jerky with soy sauce) so itch city was calling my name.

And after getting home, I dosed up on my favorite drug of choice, benadryl, and conked out. I'm surprised I even made it to work this morning. But drag my ass out of bed I did and I made it on time and even had time to do my hair. That's what I call tenacity. Still, I've had a fuzzy head all day. I'm sure my coworkers all thought I was on something. Well, I was. Benadryl. That shit will leave a hangover, I tell ya. And it left me just this side of cranky most of the day.

Anywayyyy. I'm finally home and snuggled in my bed and it's not even 9. But whatevs. That doesn't make me an old lady. Nope. I'm such sensible. And I need my beauty sleep. 'Cuz it takes a lot of sleep to make THIS look good. *points to face* Uh huh.

Nevertheless, I'm full of excitement. Is there a word for more than excitement? Please, if you know one, pass it on. I'm in need of it right about now. Because I leave in a little over 3 days for Portland to see Love Interest and I'm super duper stoked.

I know you're jealous, Internet, but try to keep it to a minimum. Only happiness for me will be accepted at this time. I don't take Visa, Mastercard, or Amex. Or checks. But I will take happiness. And cash. You can give me cash. That, I guess, would be okay.