March 31, 2011

Type A[nxious]?

I have a bunch of blog entries brewing in my head.  In fact, I have that and so many other things brewing in my head that lately insomnia has been a nightly visitor.  Fabulous.

Being Type A is extremely different than being an anxious, worrisome person.  Being Type A is fun- always a project underway, always a newly organized closet that I'm so pleased with I could curl up in it to bask in its glory.  Bathrooms smell like Comet. Rugs have the lines in them from vacuuming.  Office spaces are adorned with shelving, mail organizers and little towers that separate paper clips, tacks, rubber bands, and... buttons.  (What? I had nowhere else to put the extra garment buttons that come with new clothes and I'm saving them so that I eventually have enough to put in a cute little vase.  I think that'll be adorable.)  Being Type A makes your library color coded.  Yes, it is possible to color code your book bindings by color group, then place them lovingly in the colors of the rainbow.

But.  Oh this is a big but.  Bigger than my... whatever.  But anxiety, ANXIETY, is different.  There's no flair.  There's no positivity to be gleaned by worry.  It is quite literally useless.  Unless you're looking for a reason to be wide awake, tossing, turning, and scratching every stupid itch that would never have bothered you in the first place if you were asleep!  AHHHHHHHH!

Via woke up at 2:30 am for a bottle.  I expected she would given the last time I fed her and when she went down.  I fell asleep at about 11:30.  Three hours.  I feed the babe and snuggled her back into her crib by 3ish.  I go to my bed, beamingly wide awake- like I took a hit of adrenaline- and surfed the Dark Side for a few hours.  Every financial burden, Via nap-time concerns for when she's in day care, the fact that I will have to leave her every day to go back to work, my goodness- even bees, just kept me all too awake and anxious.  Sadly, my fantastic Type A personality was no match.  There was no relief, no reasonable way to compartmentalize my thoughts.  By 5:30 I was so about to jump out of my skin that I flew out of bed with a robust curse and a flip of the covers and went into the living room so as not to disturb my husband.  He followed me into the living room interested to see what his dynamic wife was up to at that god-forsaken hour.  Not surprised by my mental antics, he hugged me, told me I was nuts and that I need to have faith that things will work themselves out, and we went back to bed.  He fell asleep.  I stayed awake.

I eventually dozed off- for an hour before I had to feed Via again- awesome.  She went back down and I passed right out.  But here we are, in the late morning, awake from our night and with every excuse in the world to be moody and full of piss and vinegar, I have Via right here next to me kicking, talking to me and smiling from ear to ear.  I can't be mad.  I just smile right back at her and speak her language because with all that stupid crap bogging my mind down- nothing is as cool as the Nugget.  And nothing gives me more perspective about what's actually REAL in this world as does my baby girl- when she is my first real gift and the first tangible sign of what people mean by hope and faith.

Bees?  Fuck bees.  I will punch every bee in the face.

March 25, 2011

Weight naught, want not.

It's always a good sign when the glass is half full.  Lots of people consider themselves to be the "glass-is-half-full" type of people.  My husband is and I like that about him.  But sometimes... I mean, let's call a spade a spade here.

I don't necessarily fall into this "the glass is half full" category.  I'd like to know exactly what this glass is full of.  Are we talking a delightful martini?  A rich glass of wine?  Or, is the glass, in the parlance of our times, full of shit?  The glass is always full of something, so when you dig deeper, I think it really only matters what the person is full of.  And there are two kinds of people.

There are people that are full of substance- a generic term that pretty much covers all things good, and there are people that are full of said shit.  I can say this because I'm just now realizing how full of shit I can be.

When my daughter was born recently I realized you expend as much energy being full of... it... as you do being held accountable to what it is you say you stand for.  This realization lead me to another realization: with such limited expendable energy, you might as well get something done.  Quit messing around.

So, I promise to be less full of it when it comes to my self image.  Women often have a hard time projecting how they really feel about themselves because they so often feel crappy.  I could be making a gross realization about women and their self image, but I could also be right.  I'll own this, though, and speak only for myself.

I'm a bit tired of playing the victim and blaming my misgivings or short-comings on someone or something else.  I've bitched and moaned about my body since I've been twelve.  Probably younger.  At ONE time have I ever felt confident and proud of my body.  I was a junior in college, literally not eating, and teeny with hot hip bones that showed when I wore my hot ass jeans.  I was in control and recall thinking at one point that beauty really is power.  I got whatever I wanted.  Out at bars, in school, at Starbucks.

Why?  Why weight?

Why is it that the less I weigh the better I feel?  No matter how empty or hungry?  After all the lies about having just eaten or 'I'll eat later'.  I was so damn cute but so full of shit.  I lied to myself, made myself believe that feeling thin was better than feeling full.  Really what it was, was that feeling in control felt better than feeling like I was less than who I should be because I weighed more.

I don't even know if that made sense.  But here I am, twenty seven, and a new mom with baby weight packed right where it prefers to sit.  Yes, I have a fabulous excuse for my [not so] newly acquired  [rotund] physique.  My daughter is fantastic.  She's my little nugget and I would do anything for her- including walk around with a fat ass.  But not for long.

In my attempt to be full of less shit, I'm going to actually work out hard and diet honestly.  Which means eat healthily and go easy on the sweets.  Ugh.  It's so much easier to starve.

It'll be a journey to work for a body I'm proud of.  It's a journey to work on being full of substance.  It's mental mostly, anyways, the determination it will take to be consistent and dedicated to my goal of losing weight and feeling proud of the person I am.  But at least, no matter how this ends up, I'll know that whatever I get done will be mine- that I didn't waste energy and hate myself for it.  I'd like to see this energy yield a positive result so that my glass really will be full of something good.  Like a delightful martini. That comes with a salad.  After I just worked out.

March 24, 2011

To blog or not to blog

Why would I blog?  What does blogging even mean anyway?  In the shower this morning, I mulled over this question and decided that to blog is simply to write your thoughts and air your dirty laundry in public.  Well, in my world, it costs 12 quarters, specifically three dollars a load, to clean dirty laundry.  In blog world, it's free to sign up.

Sometimes I'll be whitty and on the money.  Sometimes cranky.  At times, you'll encounter nonsensical garbage.  But I think thats the case for anything in this world.  Truth is, this world can be whitty and on the money, it can be cranky and it can be full of nonsensical garbage.  But nothing is more futile than pretending to be exempt from these conditions.

Welcome to the memoirs of a hot mama.