megfowler.com

That’s totally the face I’m making right now. I swear it. And here’s a haiku about that face:

squinty mcsquinter
stop fussing the way you do
think about bunnies

There. Now I feel better.

And onto the plans….!

1. I’m going to write a book. Err, publish a book? Make a book from things I’ve already written? Can you feel my absolute confidence in the project oozing from the screen? But, yes, I am. I’m deciding now on themes and expansion and how to spiderweb it all together into something coherent, thoughtful, buy-worthy and solid. Not just I MADE MY BLOG INTO A BOOK GET IT WHILE YOU CAN… because, hello, you can get it all online. Save for the posts I delete, of course, but you didn’t want those anyway, I promise.

   If you have theme ideas, posts you think should be included, or just a general YES, I WANT TO BUY IT! affirmation, speak now or… you know, speak later. I’m open.
   
   

2. I’m embarking on a life plan beginning next week, focusing on two major areas of my life: health and finance. Now, on the health side, I do have certain issues I won’t be able to conquer with even a super excellent plan, but I think there are lots of things I could do to increase my daily wellbeing. Increased fitness is one of those things, as much as the idea of increasing my output sounds rather UGH! to me this week.

   BUT! I would love some longer, leaner muscles… I would love to make my curves proportional to my wee frame within… I would love to feel more confident and energetic in my own skin. I think that’s worth the effort. To that end, I think I’m going to finally buy the new running shoes I’ve needed for a while (my current shoes pinch my feet) — maybe some MBT shoes? What do you think? Pretty much anything they are designed to remedy has been wrong with me at some point or other, physiologically (I’m hard on this bod!) I also am lugging my sorry ass back to the doctor to adjust a few elements of my treatment to get some better results… more rapid change. Other self care stuff? Drinking enough water. Stretching. Cutting down on coffee (OH MY GOSH!) And perhaps dressing according to my actual levels of sass, non? Yeah!

   As far as finance goes, I’m going to be a self-nazi, and nail down my saving goals for the next two years. Also? How I plan to find a sugar daddy. Ahem.

3. I’m going to aggressively seek out more freelance work. I think this is good for both my bankbook and my self-identity as a writer. Yes — I DID mean to sound fruity about that, thank you. But seriously… I know what I’m capable of. Time to haul ass and get published like a good girl… under my own name!

So. Ideas welcome, either in comments or via email. And of course, you can just say LOVE YOU! GO FOR IT! because I’m going to, so you might as well.

WOO!

So.

I’m a New England Patriots fan, as well as a Tom Brady fan.

(Yeah, yeah… I saw the game.)

This puts me in several categories, as far as the general public is concerned (as well as my friends and family):

1. Smart — Tom Brady is a legendary athlete and great leader, and the Pats are one of the best teams in NFL history

2. Bandwagonner – You’re just hanging onto the coattails of success (which isn’t true — fan for more than a decade)

3. Traitor to my gender — He’s a baby abandoner! He’s a supermodel dater! How could you! (despite the fact that OH YEAH I WASN’T THERE AND NEITHER WERE YOU. Do you know Bridget or Tom? Is it anyone’s business but theirs? Does it have ANYTHING to do with football… his actual job? Or hers as an actress? Yeah.)

4. Brady FanGirl — Is Tom Brady attractive? Yes. Is he a great athlete/leader? Yes. Do those two things have anything to do with one another? No. I’m thinking Randy Moss doesn’t catch the passes because Tom is a fine-looking man — he catches them because they’re accurate. And there are a hell of a lot of good-looking athletes out there I’ve never even thought twice about.

I get a little irritated at the same old “blah blah blah Patriots! blah blah blah Brady!” comments, not because people don’t have a right to their opinions, but because the stuff they pick on really doesn’t have anything to do WITH FOOTBALL.

It has to do with the fact that no one really likes “perfect.”

Even as I say that, I cringe, because there’s no way either the man or the team is perfect. As soon as someone scores on them, they cease to be technically “perfect” and just become really, really successful. And why? Because, generally — with the exception of a bizarrely lackluster performance last night — they do what it takes to win.

I don’t really know much else about Tom Brady beyond that. And I don’t want to.

I think I’m in the minority there, though.

And this is just one tiny example among millions.

For every person that loves to love on people who have lives that seem “ideal”, there are people hunting for the chink in the armor. For every person that wants their heroes to be “Teflon”, there’s someone looking to make things stick to them like glue.

We couch the need to punish the “perfect” (and yes, I’m still using that term facetiously) in things like “rooting for the underdog” and “taking the piss” and “cutting people down to size”, but does our response to their success (or fame or money or notoriety) say more about us than it does about them?

I think so.

It has to do with our own moral codes as applied to (our perception of) other people’s lives.

It has to do with prurient fascination with other peoples’ “dirty laundry.”

It has to do with frustration with our OWN experience… as in, why are they successful? I could do THAT.

And it extends past the Patriots to political candidates and pop stars and public figures of all kinds… pretty much anyone who does anything that extends them 15 minutes of fame or 15 bucks in royalties.

I’ve had a problem with celebrity gossip and our smug culture of cynicism and snark for a long time, even as I know that I’ve taken my fair share of potshots at my own little set of less-beloved celebrity figures (from Oprah to Joe Francis.) I’ve been convicted about that stuff lately, though… I mean, why am I obsessing about it? Am I just adding to the problem with my own purely opinion-based voice? Am I saying anything new or thoughtful or helpful to the culture around me?

Let me make this clear, too: it’s not that we can’t say anything at all about public figures. The mechanisms of fame are fascinating and worthy of discussion. Still, cultural analysis is one thing. Ethics is one thing. News is one thing.

But excoriation is another thing entirely.

There’s a difference between trying to understand the influence someone has on our culture and the nature of their success… and posting photos of them not wearing underwear. And we know which one gets more attention — which is why those photos exist.

The level to which the media — be it web or print or broadcast — has accelerated into covering these stories is extraordinary. There have always been gossip sheets and tabloids, but nothing like this. Obviously there’s a market, or they wouldn’t do it. After all, they exist to perpetuate their own role, and they’ve obviously found that the public will take as much as they can give.

And they’d have nothing to say without the publicists feeding them their information, relying on our fascination with muckracking and the lowest common denominator to keep their clients in the headlines. Why are we honoring their desire to hook us with absolute bullshit?

How much is going to be enough?

Is it “true” because someone printed it?

Why do we need to know the things we know?

Why does learning who someone sleeps with/fights with/hangs out with have anything to do with their talent or artistic/athletic/intellectual output?

Why are we buying in?

Why does someone owe me back the price of a movie ticket with a chunk of their private lives?

I’m just not cynical enough to think it’s a fully consensual relationship on all sides, either.

For every celebrity playing the game with a steady hand, there’s four more who are too addled to think for themselves, for reasons we shouldn’t perpetuate, even if they are responsible for creating the mess they’re in. For every savvy image-pusher, there’s an actor who just wants to act, or a singer who just wants to sing, or a guy who just wants to make the TD… and they can’t, because “that’s the price of fame” — even if there’s a huge difference between being known and being vilified.

And for every single one of them, there could be a family that hasn’t made that same deal with the devil.

Does it help a certain actor’s family to see speculation about his death splashed across every website and newspaper going? Does his daughter need to read all of that when she grows up someday, or is that a story her family and her family alone should tell her about her dad?

Does it help the children of people in the public eye to grow up with their parents’ private lives on display? Sure… their parents are responsible. Sure, they’ll get the inheritance when they crash and burn. But when you put down your money for it or click on the URL, you might as well be making their therapy appointments twenty years from now.

Does it make us more informed about the world when we read a story in OK! magazine that someone got paid a million dollars to share… and did everyone close to them make a choice to put their lives on display, too?

There are thousands of examples. People are dying to both stay and get out of the public eye as we speak, and neither situation seems worthy of support.

So what’s your problem with “perfect”?

What’s your “need to know”?

Why are you content with indulging the worst part of your human nature?

Why are people getting rich off of your hunger to latch onto the latest lies and rumours and tales — even richer than they’re getting off their actual jobs (if they have one)?

And what COULD you be learning about if you turned the volume down on the crap?

I don’t pretend to be immune to it all, or to be naive about the system that makes it work. I hear you telling me to chill out and “c’est la vie!”

I just wonder why it’s okay to shrug at the madness and let it shape the world around me.

I should be the one doing that.

And unless I figure out how to hear my own mind and heart above all the voices around me, I don’t stand much of a chance.

1. What made you decide to be with the person you’re with?

2. What made you decide to do the work you do?

3. What type of discussion brings out the most passion in you?

4. If you could change three things about your life instantly by snapping your fingers, what would you wish for before the big snap?

5. What two qualities do you possess that you would never, ever change?

6. When you come across something you want to change in your life, what’s the first step?

7. At what moment in your day are you most at peace?

Most of the jobs I’ve done since I was old enough to work involved four things:

1. Dealing with people.
2. Thinking on my feet.
3. Leading by example instead of by virtue of position.
4. Responding to various crises with a sense of humour and patience.

And I did pretty well with all of them. It feels strange to be anything other than self-deprecating, but even I know I made things happen.

Not that I never made mistakes. Wow, did I make some mistakes. I’m just as good at making mistakes as I am any of those things. Maybe better.

Fortunately, I always worked with some awesome people that balanced out my idiocy when I dropped the ball in small or spectacular ways.

And I felt good about what I was doing, even when my hours were long or the challenges were stupidly large. I could do it. I did do it.

When I look back on my life and on those roles now, I find myself wondering where the hell that girl went.

You know, the girl who believed that pretty much anything was possible with effort and hope?

The girl who could stand up to anyone without giving in to her temper, because she knew what she believed?

The girl who knew her value and what she brought to the table?

The girl who listened well, who noticed, who loved, who showed compassion?

I don’t let her speak up much anymore.

I mostly just tell her how hard things have become, and that her chance will come again when all of this passes.

Somewhere along the way, I let people who hurt me be the largest voices in my life, and let the good voices slip into background noise, including my own.

Somewhere along the way, I decided that what I wasn’t and what I couldn’t do defined me more than the gifts I already had.

Somewhere along the way, I began to believe things couldn’t change.

Somewhere along the way, I forgot that lying down is a terrible first step in moving forward.

Somewhere along the way, I told myself that the girl who had those four skills — and more! — didn’t really have them anymore.

But we both know that’s bullshit, she and I.

I’ve just allowed procrastination and fear and history and paranoia and anger to dump on me like a heavy snow, while I sit in the drift, waiting to freeze.

I want to dig out.

I want to warm up.

I want to trust myself again.

I want to know in my own heart that health problems, that weight problems, that bad relationships, that work screw-ups, that financial mistakes, that handling things badly, that infertility, that arguments, that everything I’ve said that I wish I’d never said…

… well, that none of those things are the End of Meg.

I can’t go to bed another night wondering what new portion of my life is going to break in the morning, or how I’ll manage to mess things up again.

I want to go to bed knowing that whatever comes, I’ve got it. I can do it. I’m on it.

Even if I wake up feeling sick.

Even if I’m bumping my head against a stack of mistakes a mile wide.

Even if people don’t have the faith in me right now to make things happen.

Even if I can’t change some things, I want to believe I will change everything I can.

I want to stop asking myself how the hell to stop shutting myself down, and just STOP.

Is it as easy as just deciding to?

I know it can’t possibly be, but then again… maybe it is.

Being a single girl — and a girl who has been single for a while now OH MY GOSH NO! — I tend to be a bit of a magnet for other people’s love angst/thoughts/philosophies/dreams/concerns/criticisms.

If I talk about my “status”, they either rush to matchmake or tell me in the same breath that “it will come when I least expect it/stop looking (which is actually about 99% of the time)” or “put myself out there.”

What, like in the middle of an intersection? But I’ll get to that in a moment.

If I DON’T talk about being single, they become convinced that I am a) determined to be solitary; b) depressed; c) a man-hater; or d) socially awkward.

I get the “why not try dating online?” suggestions. (Answer: No. Even if you met your husband there. Sorry. And it’s okay that I don’t want to, I promise.)

I get the “why not join a club?” suggestions. (Answer: What club? The Club For Single People Looking To Meet Other Single People Doing Quirky and Interesting Activities? Please. I will join a club because I like the club. Not to meet a man.)

I get the “I could set you up!” suggestions. (Answer: Ehh… maybe. But I’d have to talk to them first. People are notorious for setting their friends up with people their friends would NEVER DATE.)

I also get the “don’t let anyone tell you that you need a man to be happy!” lecture… as if I ever said anything like that, anyway.

Could there BE more mixed messages?

I know it’s all well-meaning, but I’m pretty much done with it, folks.

Talking about love doesn’t mean I’m pining for it. And even if I WAS pining for it, it doesn’t mean I have to launch myself from a cannon into a room full of speed daters. Even if I go on and on and on about it for hours… well, I’m allowed.

That’s life. We think, we work through things, we change, we grow. We do it out loud, sometimes.

You can listen or not. But I don’t need you to FIX IT.

And not talking about love doesn’t mean I’m ignoring my own desires to be with someone and to share my life. It just means I don’t feel like talking about it right now.

I don’t need my priorities criticized. I don’t need my standards criticized. I don’t even need my fantasies criticized.

I just want to be me, and see how things go. So why is that so hard?

Because people have weird ideas about love.

Weird ideas like…

1. If you love yourself, other people will love you. The basic premise of this is pretty solid — that you have to make taking care of yourself and accepting yourself a priority. And I totally agree. It DOES make you more attractive. I like being around people who have confidence and a strong sense of self. No doubt.

Is it the key to being in a relationship, though? NO. It’s not. What if you love yourself but also happen to be TOTALLY ANNOYING?

Just kidding.

I know plenty of people who have confidence and take great care of themselves who are single, and not always by choice. So preach the value of self-love. But not as the key to finding love.

2. If you put yourself out there, you’ll find it. Yeah. Singles bars are full of this evidence. What you’re actually finding, though…

Seriously, now. Yes, you increase the odds of getting hit by a boat when you swim around in a harbour. But you also increase your chances of drowning. And other bad metaphors.

My point is, meeting someone is not the same thing as meeting someone that connects with you. If you are forcing yourself to be places or in situations that don’t make you happy, then you are in the wrong places and situations.

And if they DO make you happy, who cares what happens or not? Be where you want. Because you want to be there. And have fun.

3. It comes when you least expect it/aren’t looking for it. What? Like a meteorite from space? Come on. This is by far the most annoying cliche people throw at singles. I know lots of people who found love while seeking it rather ardently, and also know people who were surprised by it in the extreme.

Lesson? It happens when it happens.

4. Your standards are too high. Oh, really? Do you know what my standards are? And which ones would you like me to ditch? Obviously, I don’t expect my mate to be things I’m not (other than good at putting together IKEA furniture.)

That would just be obnoxious. Granted, I’d love him to be smarter than me… but that ain’t so hard.

5. You just haven’t found The One yet. Ugh. The One. Like I’m going to date Neo from the Matrix. If I thought there was ONE MAN ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH I could be happy with, I don’t even think I’d want to meet him. That’s way too much pressure!

I think there are any number of people I could enjoy life with, and it’s not a matter of puzzle pieces, or pots and lids, or locks and keys or pegs and holes OR ANYTHING ELSE THAT SOUNDS PRETTY BLATANTLY PHALLIC.

There.

Now, here’s what I think (grain of salt included):

1. You should love yourself just for the sake of loving yourself. Not to make yourself more appealing to anyone else.

2. You shouldn’t expect other people to be what you aren’t. I had a friend tell me once that she was glad her husband was so patient, because otherwise, her being a bitch would sink their marriage. What? I get how our qualities balance one another out, but if you’re a bitch to your husband, you should likely STOP THAT. Kindness is more important than a lot of things. If you can find a way to stay kind, you are 100% ahead of the curve.

3. You shouldn’t expect a relationship to make you whole. You make you whole. When you break, others can help you mend. But they can’t act like sealing putty for your life. And we’re usually all a little bit (or a lot) broken anyway, and in the process of mending. That’s where acceptance comes in. It’s just as important as kindness.

4. Love is not a single decision or moment or lightning bolt. It’s a series of choices you make or don’t make.

5. How you look/how thin you are/how much money you have/how many plans you make/how long you date/how long you live together/how long you don’t live together/what kind of wedding you have/how much you have in common/how much you don’t have in common/whether or not you have a TV in your bedroom/whether or not you have the same hobbies/whether or not you met on a plane or train or online or through friends or by arranged marriage… not one of these things guarantees success or failure in love.

Really.

Some factors in your life can improve your odds of things working out with certain people, but statistics in this area are CRAP. Yes, crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. I am a big proponent of statistics, too. Just not WHERE THEY ARE CRAP. I stand by this.

I’ve seen “perfect” circumstances fail miserably, and “imperfect” circumstances succeed. And who is to even judge perfect and imperfect, anyway?

But that’s just what I think. About love.

Oh, and one more thing: I love love. I fully believe I will fall in love one day. No doubt in my mind.

And no amount of cynicism or confusion or ranting or wondering along the way changes my ability to love the man I choose to love, when I choose to do it. I’ll put my heart into it, and that’s saying something.

So what do you think about all of this?

I’m in a bit of a state.

Not a bit of a state as in Rhode Island, mind you.

I’m just really up in the air and boggled and slightly unsettled and I’m not totally sure why. Yet, that is.

It makes me loathe to blog because I figure everything coming from my keyboard right now sounds inane or ill-thought-out. Which is not to say that this isn’t NORMALLY the case, but it’s actually irritating me right now.

I want to say something worthwhile.

But what excites me and gets me going doesn’t really seem to be something I can articulate right now. Or at least I can’t articulate it to the point that it will sound anything but half-baked or half-argued or half-considered.

And that means something is up.

I find that, right before I make any large change in my life, I always have to go through this period of uberfrustration. I get inordinately angry at mistakes I make. I discredit good things I’m already doing because I’m not doing everything perfectly (not that I could, but there you go.)

At times like this, I rail at people for speaking cliches at (note: not “to”) me, or giving the standard advice people give to anyone going through a transition:

Don’t be so hard on yourself! Nobody is perfect!

You need to not worry about it so much!

And it’s not that I don’t KNOW all those things (actually, the second one is complete crap, I’ll discount it without any further consideration), but I’m one of those people who hears “Just relax!” and feels my blood pressure rise.

Yep. A spaz.

It doesn’t mean I’m frustrated every moment of the day or week or month. Or that I don’t go merrily about doing most of the things I normally do. Or that I’m not moving forward with every good intention and a big dose of passion. It just means that there’s something else lurking right below my skin that isn’t, you know, a tick.

On one hand, it’s awesome, because it means I’m on the edge of something major.

On the other hand, it sucks horribly, because it means I’m on the edge.

I want to process it all in a million ways, but the permanence of words intimidates me. What if I say something and sound serious when I’m not? What if my questions hurt someone? What if I explore something and totally change my mind?

I think the only big thing I don’t have trouble saying at this point is “I love you.”

So will that do for now?

I’m one of those people.

You know the ones.

The tossy-turny, rollovery, hmm I was just thinking-y, woo-it’s-warm-in-here, maybe-I-need-a-glass-of-milk-y, are-you-sleeping-already, I’m-not-ready-for-Monday-y, late-night-revelation-y, well… people.

When I climb into bed at night, my brain rumbles into overdrive, and I’m left lying awake until 2 am pondering the universe and world economics and old Magnum P.I. plotlines.

It’s much worse on Sunday nights, too.

I guess I’m mentally preparing for the week ahead, but not by making lists or setting out my agenda or doing anything rational. No, I’m just boggling at life. And not necessarily important aspects of life, either.

Like, only moments ago, trying to remember the names of the Hanson brothers (no, not the band. From Slapshot.)

For hours.

People make all sorts of suggestions as to how I could slow things down in my agitated brain/heart/soul: prayer, essential oils on my pillow, yoga, sleep breathing, sleep hygiene, herbal remedies, prescription drugs… you name it.

I suppose some of them might have an impact. But this has been the Nature of Meg since I was two years old and yelling, “HEY, WHAT YOU GUYS DOING IN THERE” through the wall when I was supposed to be a sleeping cherub in my crib.

Can it be cured? Hard to say.

I’ve never been a cherub.

More of a town crier.

And that’s fine, I think.

Except that I have nowhere to PUT all this stuff. I just have to let it juggle around in my psyche until I finally wear myself out or experience the cosmic release valve that is Morning Coffee.

So.

Want some?

For you, the last 15 things I thought about. Feel free to think about them, too, or just marvel at the fact that I’d do this instead of ZZZZZ…

1. If my love of fabric softener is leaving a buildup on the fibres of my clothes (well, okay, I already know it is, I’m just thinking about how I should STOP THAT.)

2. Why soda is always “lemon-lime” and not just “lemon” or “lime.”

3. How people actually make it through an episode of Survivor without wanting to send Mark Burnett a bill for their time.

4. Haircut or new boots? Haircut or new boots? Haircut or new boots?

5. Why the “vibrate” setting on my phone is so violent my roommate can hear it rattling on my bedside table through the wall when I get late-night texts (and this is a girl who can sleep through Eric and I debating about U.S. politics and Cirque de Soleil from three feet away.)

6. Why sometimes my bed is so incredibly comfy, and sometimes it makes my back ache.

7. How anyone convinces themselves that the way to get people to agree with their ideas is to belittle everyone else’s ideas mercilessly.

8. Why it is that I radically prefer non-fiction writing to fiction writing, even with a Lit degree under my belt (or hoop skirt, as it were.)

9. What the purpose is behind junebugs, the Electoral College, Dr. Phil, the return of legwarmers, or Dancing with the Stars.

10. If I put my charitable dollars in the right places this past year.

11. How to very quickly master the art of baking bread, with as few failed loaves as possible.

12. What I *really* want in a lifemate.

13. Which city I will end up moving to, when I eventually move. Which I think I will. One day.

14. How one can learn to excel at following diagrammatic instruction.

15. What it will take for me to become a better friend.

And you?

When I think of you, I never think of a red paper valentine crumpled deep in my pocket, or a blue-purple prop of pulsing tissue invented for pretend surgeons to hold.

No, I think of a rosy stuffed satin heart my mother once received in a floral arrangement. When the carnations and roses died, the heart became a sort of weapon in our house.

We’d throw it at one another with a single, hissed syllable — “Flot!” — before running away to avoid the sure return of fire.

I’m not sure why we did it, but I like it better that I don’t remember.

I can close my eyes and see myself pitching that shiny heart a thousand times, giggling like a fiend as I made my escape.

If you threw it too hard, it would hurt. Too soft, and it would land short of your target. Then the cat would come steal it away, and you might not see it again for a week.

It was a pretty unlucky heart, that one.

But I guess you know how that goes, don’t you?

I’ve been tossing you around for years… sideways, up and down, aiming here and there and nowhere.

I’ve seen you glance off a few bodies and be caught by others.

Sometimes they hang on to you.

Sometimes you fall to the ground moments later.

Sometimes they throw you back.

But you’ve been airborne for so long that I wonder if you’d even know how to sit peacefully in my chest and beat like a good heart, keeping time and keeping counsel and keeping the blood flowing to my winter-cold toes.

It doesn’t help that my tosses are usually ill-calculated — a lack of skill evident in the rips across your surface and the bits of stuffing you leave in your wake.

You take the miscalculations again and again, though, and still manage to stay soft in my palm.

I often wonder if it would be easier for you if you could just harden up a little… but you don’t and you won’t and you never have.

Thank God.

Even when I choose the wrong places to send you, stay this way.

Even when I send you flying too hard, stay this way.

Even when you feel your seams ripping open, stay this way.

Even when you wonder how the hell you’ll beat again when I finally let you be… stay this way.

Because I’ll figure out one day that you are neither decoration, nor toy, nor joke, nor weapon.

No.

You are for blood and for life and for love and for those who hold you dear.

You are for me.

You are for the one I choose.

And most definitely not for the cat.

Love,

Meg

I’m a little wonky today for a number of reasons related to both my disorder and my gender (what? I don’t know what I’m talking about either) so posting might be a little wonky as well.

Granted, now that I’ve said that, I’ll inevitably post 90 things during the course of the day, which will lead six people to leave the comment that “we thought you weren’t feeling well?”

Which may lead to me raising an eyebrow and waggling my finger at the screen, but you won’t see that, will you? No, you won’t.

But, because I love you, I’m going to link to six old but fun — just like William Shatner! — posts here, just in case you needed something to read. I care about your reading needs, you know… I really do. Much in the same way I am concerned for your dental hygiene and iron intake. And the cleanliness of your underwear.

Consider me your cybermom.

Wait, no, don’t. That’s creepy.

Anyway:

Donettes, yo.

The infamous “Dear Him” letter.

Apparently, I’m an easy lover.

Remember?

No real excuse for a photo of Ryan Reynolds. But a lot of opinions.

A manifesto.

I’ve always been one to think a single thought at a time.

Usually I’m cycling through four or five different processes: making plans, rethinking old conversations, problem solving, problem creating, detail fixating, general bananacrackerdom…

You get the idea.

If you ask me what I’m thinking, you’ll get a shrug because the list is too damn long.

I don’t really settle down, ever. Not when I’m falling asleep. Not when I’m actively engaged in a pressing task. Not when I’m watching tv or reading or doing anything where my thoughts should ideally give way to a little bit of fantasy or escape.

It’s kind of crazymaking at times, but I’m used to how I think. I can accomplish pretty much anything I need to over the white noise.

Most of the time.

Some days, it gets so loud in there that the noise trickles down to my heart.

Those are the days when I have a million questions, when I’m wondering what will happen, when I’m torn between things I need to do and things I want to do, when I’m frustrated but holding my tongue because saying something out loud will only turn up the volume inside, when I’m so close to agitated that I can practically see static on a screen.

I’ve had more of those days lately.

I’m tired of how quickly time is passing with so little to show for it. I’m realizing I’ve convinced myself I’m achieving something because I let myself get stressed out.

I’m using the white noise as an excuse not to drill down and figure out my own life.

Today, I woke up so frenetic that I could barely settle on an idea for longer than two minutes. I just kept thinking of lists and ideas and tiny crises and big crises and by the time I got in the shower, I could barely differentiate between the shampoo and the conditioner. I was too busy trying to do a mental budget for February and worrying about a conversation I’d had and cursing my lack of discipline.

What?

I only get like this when I’m unsatisfied. I only get like this when I want to make real connections and real goals and real achievements and can’t seem to get there.

It’s clear that flailing isn’t much of a substitute for living. And getting stuck in your head is like rolling up all the windows in your car on a hot sunny day.

Someone asked me last year if I could name three things I’d like to be by the age of 35. I think they were speaking of roles I’d like to inhabit, but I’d just gone through a major readjustment of my expectations, so all I could think of for a moment was “grateful.”

Now I’d add “peaceful.” Which is different than slow or quiet, because I don’t think my brain will ever be these things.

But a little peace would not go amiss.