Ah, stress, how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways. Oh wait, there's a gazillions ways I hate you. For all the reasons I can think of, including but not limited to: My neck seizing. The tactical targeting of my immune system. Dotting my face with breakouts. Sweating- profuse amounts of sweating. Trouble sleeping. My short temper. I am snappy. I don't like anything about myself or anyone else for that matter. My tolerance and patience is zip! Then there's the stress eating, which just makes me feel worse about the rest of these shenanigans. So, I decided to take a deep breathe, a yoga class, a long walk and a nap...you know, just to see how the Stress with a capital S reacted.
Well, Stress isn't stupid and it's oddly patient. Avoidance doesn't equal Stress-execution. Stress waits, while I am hovering in warrior pose. I awake from my nap to find it staring me in the face. Stress is a Siamese twin joined to me at the heart. Stress you persistent eh-hole (this stress is very Canadian;)) you just won't leave me alone. So, deep breath, I pick up my blog and write a letter to stress:
Stress,
I do not accept you. The way you make me feel and the way you steal my energy for things I should be psyched about. Every time you tag along I feel like I could puke or punch someone out or cry. How do you expect to make friends if you treat everyone like this way? Wouldn't you rather be enthusiasm? Or perhaps butterflies? If you would like to explore alternate careers, please let me know and we can talk it out.
Hopefully,
Melicious
PS You've made my butt look fat in these pants- what's your plan for that?
Dropping this letter sealed with a kiss into the Universal mail box, I hope Stress gets the jist. But like any courier UMS is hit or miss. As for me; I will continue to encourage myself to grow, participate, put myself out there. The more I act like the person I want to be; the easier it is to be that person. Slowly, but surely I have begun to realize the things I was stressing over might not be so bad. The fear of failure was stressing me out- but the need to express myself and live regret free is a way bigger win, well worth the stress. Change is stressful, but it's something I can handle. I'll just catch Stress, then quarantine it, rehabilitate it and release it back into the wild. Otherwise let's hope all Stress needed was a strongly worded letter.
My face needs a break. This realization was quick and blemished. I've loved the same products for so long. But when BFF brought out her new cleanser, smelling of lemongrass and spring water; I was jealous. I have been using the same 12 step program for the last 5 years.
People have asked me how I manage to do all 12 steps everyday. The reply? Reverse packing it into the cabinet, so I have to move all 12 steps to get to step one. And I know that I have a very special case of OCD because if I have to touch it to move it, I will use it. It's there, paid for. It's got to be used up before I can buy something new. It's the rule in my house. It applies to everything, except for a few things.
There is something so predictable about my love for shoes. Something so Muriel's Wedding. I love My shoes. But there are shoes in every doorway. Hanging in mock organization. Hiding under the bed. In boxes stacked inside suitcases. The Comissioner hates it. *throat clear*game systems. To the uninformed observer it may seem like overkill but there are shoes for every occasion. I have costume boots and flimsy sandals. Green and brown and suede. Shoes for dancing. And peep toes fancies. How could I get rid of any of them:$ I might need them any day now.
Another jam packed buried treasure. My make up box. Every shade of the rainbow a piece from a different Mac collection. The shade variations and the exclusive colours tickling my fancy. Painting my face and changing my story. I am addicted to green mascara from the Amazon. And my sleepy time rose water nigh-night cream, a dreamy pre-bed ritual. Sephora calls to me like a siren in an otherwise ill fitting mall. Floating on a sea of serums and balms, gels and oils. Longing for the spice of life. Though my 12 steps remain the same.
With my tight fisted-ness and ability to deny myself the pleasure of shiny and new; I am boldy marching toward a new regime... Well, skincare regime. I am freaking psyched for the bright smelling clean feeling of brand spanking new! Having completed my 12 step program. One out, one in. So, without any of the potential hoarding episode my other collections are becoming, I will start anew. With that in mind this holiday season I will be giving bottles of wine wrapped in boots and makeup painted greeting cards. That doesn't sound sanitary...but it does sound Eco-nomical.
The ability to relax is one that many people lack. Trust me. Having worked as a masseuse for almost 5 years. Five years of telling people to breathe. Telling people to let me do all the heavy lifting. With our 70 hour work week, we have forgotten how to relax. Taking our work home with you and trying to fit your love, your family, your friends, your animals, your dreams, your life into your already over stuffed schedule. We have forgotten the art of relaxation.
Today though my no Good Friend from Winnepeg reminded me that I do deserve to relax, feel beautiful and relax...wait I said that, sorry I am so relaxed. While spending our day in saltwater whirlpools, saunas and eucalyptus steam rooms. We felt great. The art of relaxation isn't something that comes easy to either of us. We're go-go-goers'. As with all art it takes practise unless your a savant- a rare and beautiful breed in itself. Relaxing takes focus. You must focus on your breathing. Make sure your brain is where you are instead of the billion miles away it usually is. Laugh. That's a good one laughter aids digestion and is a mild abdominal workout- a peripheral benefit. While working and accomplishing tasks is important, you only get one body and one life.
Wearing joggers and bumming on the couch can be calming but there is still a chance you will be interrupted by a Hubby, a needy Pupparoo or laundry. The key to artistic relaxation is extraction. As anyone whose ever had a facial knows-extracting yourself dermally and positionally is imperative. Remove all distractions- including a perstering blog and sit with yourself or add a friend for the fore mentioned ab workout. There is a strange beauty to be found in the sheer indulgence of body and soul. So when you want to finally master the art of relaxation. Take the weight of the world off your shoulders- let someone else take a turn carrying it. Relax so you can do a better job on your next shift. And a kind suggestion from this masseuse "Relax and breathe." Then stand or lay back and admire the art of relaxation. With a little more technique you could be a relaxation Renaissance Master someday.
While trolling through my own FB page I noticed something...I still own most of those clothes! No matter when the photo was taken; I still got it. The turquoise wrap sweater, the black and white satin dress, the grey business suit from 1999; you name it, I still got it. Yesterday someone said I looked like a hoarder! Oh please! What does that even mean? I don't own more than my fair share of cats. I flush the toilet every time I go. I don't have a spare bedroom filled with fast food containers and old Reader's Digests. But man- have I got clothes. And most of them I've had for years!! I mean it, yee-ears. They are pilled and frayed and I keep clipping and tucking and yanking, stitching and hoping for the best.
Today however, I congratulate myself. I have culled the herd- again. Donating my too short t-shirts and throwing out ugly undies. Collecting uncomfortable shoes and mis-matched socks. Pulling out the shirts with missing buttons and skirts with dropped hems. Tossing anything stained, streaked or discoloured. In an effort to be seemingly more polished. I have given away my "party" shirt that's been a staple for 5 years. I'm convinced the only thing keeping those sequins attached was my wishing. I am sentimental about my Chicago and blue Batman tees, so I kept them, though now they're tucked away safely and quietly under the bed. My stack of work clothes keeps growing. Downgrading some of my 'nice' clothes to work clothes to make room for the new phantom pieces I should add. Now, I have only 3 casual tees and 2 skirts.
The real war being the cost vs the worth. Which brings me to another crossroad. Do the expensive products differ in value to the cheap stuff? The short answer is hell YES! Now, shall I continue with the long answer? Yes. You must've noticed the difference between the Payless pleather and the Steve Madden leather. The way your hair shimmers, shines and stays when using salon products. How the dermatologist tested and clinical skincare line is better; limiting breakouts, irritation and premature aging. With the adage of getting what you pay for ringing loudly in my mind, I've tried to KISS it. (Keep It Simple Sweet-cheeks) But how do you apply this when it comes to clothing?
Understandably, the fickle nature of fashion is a strange mistress. But I am a vintage lady with classic tastes. Maybe that's the reason I've kept so many untimely timeless pieces? Hoping that they will come back around style-wise, though they never will 'weather the storm' I will keep my fingers crossed that a white tee and jeans will never go out of style. Shopping vintage has it's advantages, it's also the toughest type of shopping. It might be easier to have clothing made...which brings me to alterations. I want my clothing to fit me, but I am between sizes on top, bottom and in the middle. The only realistic thing to do would be buy a bigger size and nip-tuck it. But why spend $25 in alterations on a $35 shirt? Because it will look way better!?! What's it worth to look better?
So, FB we've reached an impasse. I am sad that my wardrobe is on constant photo album repeat. What would it take to photoshop in a new look? Would it be cheaper to alter my photos or alter my wardrobe? Well when stacked up side by side I think: It all comes out in the wash.
Yesterday was a good day. But today might be better:) Yesterday's yesterday I wrote a list. A long list. A long list that was detailed. A complimented list, with very specific direction on how things on this vacation are to go down. A vacation execution list if you will. Well, with a not to shabby a showing first day showing; I have started checking things off my list.
My sunshiny toes enforced my love of cartoon strong women. And cycling between the parked cars in my new purple helmut, which cost way too much money. But the part-time comedian at the bike shop made it worth it. My facial was a success. Moving the congestion from my chin and opening it up into summertime skin. My skin is peeled and massaged and moisturized almost back to where I like it. Soft.
My uke played my new navy nail polish off with great gusto. Baby Belle finally remembers my name. But she needs some new music, you know to impress me. Dressed as a superhero sailor in my new Monroe glasses helping to deflect the dust from my neighborhood. I got a giant douche bag drink, soy milk and all dat. Which is just as good as I remember it. My Kitty vibrates beside me and the Puppa snores and sleep kicks me as I write this. None of my books are getting any closer to being finished. But the sunset was beautiful turning the CN Tower that lovely shade of concrete pink. And the planes are quietly circling the flight path.
Today, I have something out of the ordinary. I am going to the recording studio with a 10 year old who wrote her first song and had it composed. A 4 part harmony built behind a drum kit and bass guitar. So, I get to mentor a brave baby. Ohh it's kinda cool. What a lucky and wonderful life! And I am free to do it! And then I get to hang out with my BFF. Vacation I LOVE you. Everyday is great. Those last few things aren't even on my long list, but I am excited to do them too. So as Hubby and BFF keep telling me; stop pressuring myself. I am going to release the pressure and dance a little more. And that's gonna rock! I am rocking, rolling and reeling. And with all this music floating around, who could stand still?
I don't know if you've heard, but we're having a heatwave. You can't go anywhere without people talking about it. Complaining- half heartedly. Only to correct each other with: "You'll miss this is November." At 6am while walking my Puppa stink I ran into my neighbour. We both smelled clean but looked wet. Crossing our collective fingers hoping today was a sweeter day. Knowing that soon we'd both be soggy again.
It's so hot that even my 12-step skincare regime isn't enough. I have to add 8 layers of sunscreen and another step of anti aging cream. The sun and heat are wearing my skin out. My hands are like crocodiles and my midsection is a haunting pasty white; bordered with irregular tan lines. My nails won't grow. My hair feels like a blanket laden with sweat. I've removed all my jewelry, I just don't want it touching me. All the city's women clad in sundresses and breezy fabrics; ponytails piled high on their heads.
On Saturday the sun came out after the spitting rain stopped. Not even close to the humidity cracking thunderstorm we we're promised. The storms we'd been begging for; the grass and trees needing it so badly. In heat like this everyone's looking for trouble. Men without shirts; hooting and hollering at the passing ladies. The Lakeshore blocked by high speed chasers and beer guzzlers. The sound of giant bumblebees without the sweetness of honey. People are restless and the animals are panting. It is hot. And were all trying to love it. Struggling through. Always uncomfortable, but it's Ontario weather, so what do we expect? When it gets like this our sports teams start loosing. The CFL, TFC and BJ's started their seasons well, now coming apart in the heat. My feet are swollen and I am bogged down and drippy. Trying to conserve energy, but ending up with none left anyway. Even Stephen. Six of one half dozen of the other. But man, it is hot!
All this aside, I needed an adventure. But this heat wears me out. It starts being comfortable outside close to 11pm, so you have to stay up that late just to go anywhere without sweating through your shirt. It's too dang hot. This past weekend I spent a lot of time on patios, in fan blown bars and the chilly A/C ofmy BBF. Hoping that I could find in some fun- and I did! My adventure started with a crosstown bike ride. The back roads were deserted; the streets we're open to a double wide lallygaging drift of a ride. All the stores I wanted to go to: Closed as though they forgot it was Saturday. So I settled for a bloody Marcy, a picker platter with smoked salmon and 'Baby it's cold outside' blaring from an ironic jukebox in 32 degree weather. The evening was catapulted by a flight of fancy; trying 9 new micro-brew beers. Suddenly, after way too much sun and beer came the invitation to my first ever penthouse- patio-party. A 2 floor condo with 2 bathrooms and 2 many people. Facing the CN tower and the lake. The city glimmering and calm. The temperature dipping and the breeze whispering through my hair. Finally a nice temperate adventure. Comfortable at last.
So, humidity and hops mix refreshingly well together. Turns out that by raising the adventure temperature, I managed to be hot and comfortable. Thanks Torontonians for keeping you're cool. But if there's a way we can swing it; I would like some of that rain I complained about earlier this summer:)
Okay, so a recent informal poll I conducted suggests that if there is something wrong with you, you'd like to know. I don't mean if something is wrong with you- in my opinion specifically. I mean- if you have food in your teeth, waving it's spinachy green fingers at me, you'd like to know. Things that are wrong include but are not limited to: ear, cheek and nose hair, downed flys, boogers, flipped clothing tags and other embarrassing but easily repaired esthetic flaws. So, now that we all agree we'd rather know; why do I still worry how you're gonna take it?
Well Doctor, you see that's because nobody likes to think that they have been walking around like an a*hole with their barn door wide open. I might as well take all the confidence you had at that moment, tie it to the biggest anchor I can find and throw it overboard while shouting: 'That'll teach ya for getting too big for your britches. ' cackling all the way back to shore. Pointing out flaws is a terrible feeling for all involved. The victim's "Oh no, I ate 2 hours ago and I've had a hydroponic sesame garden growing in my mouth since" feeling and the messenger's "I wish I didn't have to do this, they'll wish I'd done it sooner." feeling. It stands to reason, you're better to hear it from me, than to head to the bathroom and spot it yourself half a day later. Though reason is seldom applied to vanity.
The strangest thing about this awkward social situation is even if I am part of a much larger group; the responsibility falls to me. I can be at work as the problematic Bat in the Batcave twists in the wind- while the cave dweller tells an emphatic story- everyone sees it. EVERYONE! But nobody says anything... So I wait until the story ends. Either insert a laugh or sympathetic head shake whichever seems appropriate; because I wasn't listening- I was starring at their nose. At the next private oppurtunity I pull them aside and pretend that I just noticed the offense. "You've got a little" *insert the universal signal for get that thing outta there! Don't kill the messenger is an adage quickly brought to mind. Yesterday I found myself in this type of situation; I made the furrowed brow "what is that?" face at my co-worker, with a pinching gesture at the rogue earhair that's been driving me nuts for 30 days. He didn't get it & all I could think was; how universal is this gesture if he doesn't know it...Then I thought maybe it was a familial shorthand, an obsession 4 generations in the mating. Needless to say I gave up on that hair, but only after multiple failed attempts. Hubby says if it doesn't bother them it shouldn't bother me. HA!
Alternatively, I want people to tell me when something has gone horribly array. If I were to arrive at my Momma or BFF's with my fly down, burrs stuck to my shirt and in my hair, dark flapping booger hanging from my nose, white bread mush glued between my teeth and giant eye gunk- they would laugh first; ask me how my night was; then get to work at reno-ing this fixer-upper. As for most other people? I am pretty sure they would let you walk around in that state, assuming it was either a purposeful decision to be a disaster or I was too far gone already to be helped by a Kleenex and some floss. Either way I will keep worrying about you and your fixable flaws and worrying about how you're gonna react, so there's that:)
I am a homebody. It's not a surprise, my parents are homebodies like their parents before them. Not to mean we're hermits, we're just more comfortable being at home, entertaining at home, and just plain living there. When we're not rushing, planning and executing tasks; we're resting at home in comfy pants- regenerating for the next excursion. But by the time you read this I will be on vacation. Finally. It's great. It has been a long time since I went somewhere with my Hubby. And it's amazing what packing for a change of physical location can do to your personal perspective. I don't mean in an "Ohhh it's so amazing there" way, though it is. I mean it in an "oooh I can't let anybody see me like that" type way. I realized half-way through my pack that I was only bringing the things I save for fancy time. I was packing that new dress I haven't worn and the emergency Spanx to ensure maximum new dress output. I was packing nicest jinkies, best under-ware, cutest shoes. I wanted Montreal to see me at my best, not what I would wear on a Staycation....
With this though, as with everything else; it snowballs. So new dress, means matching shoes, tiny clutch purse, jewellery and complimentary earrings. Cute shoes mean blister pads and in the worst case scenario; muscle cream. Also best undies, doesn't necessarily mean most comfy. This exercise encourages me to take stock of the items going into the suitcase; it also allows for quiet reflection upon the reasons to leave certain others behind. I didn't choose those undies, cuz the elastic sucks and they fall down...Wait, since realizing that before putting them on in the dark, why don't I just end this uncomfortable relationship now. So, I did...And it felt great. *insert 20 min whirlwind wardrobe culling. Feeling a grand sense of accomplishment rush over me; I went the the lavatory to pack my toiletries and had the same situation. So I rinsed and sterilized my makeup brushes, married up my part bottles of creams, washes and spritzes, threw out the deodorant that only had enough stick left to scratch my armpit. But I wasn't satisfied there. New toothbrushes and razors were tagged in. Almost empty containers that were WAY too old and expired makeup was also thrown out. It's amazing how far you can see when you're not blocked by piles of old crap.
This brings me to paragraph the third entitled; I intervened myself and didn't have to go on Hoaders. As bad as I ever really got, I didn't have to worry about that. Though there are times when it's not that hard to see crazy from here. I joke, but people really can be so consumed by things that they forget all the little pretty moments that happen everyday. Like getting to wear your cute shoes and going on a mini break. Taking a deep breath and letting it out and maybe it smells like garbage, but maybe it smells like honeysuckle or fresh baked bread. So, on this vacation, I am going to enjoy my under flaunted fancy things and breathe. Celebrating a wonderful change of location, a chance to hang with my Hubby and not just the Commish, wearing my top shelf clothes and going for a walk to who knows where in a city that doesn't speak my language. I might get a blister or two, but those will just act as reminders of my trip when I get home and have to be plain-old-home-body me again. I tell you though, I am looking forward to those comfy pants:)
Extra! Extra! I have a lip zit. I have a sore and inflamed eruption on my upper lip- right on cupids bow. The top part of my lip is swollen; Angelina Jolie swollen, for crying out loud. I work in a beauty oriented business and every time I speak, all I am reminded of is this unsightly puss bump growing by the minute. What a disaster.
This lip zit is all I can think about. Being my skin obsessed-self, I want so badly to pop it. I stare at it in every reflective surface. I want to squeeze the daylights/dickens out of it. But I won't- squeezing will set me back 3 weeks of repair time, I don't have that kind of time to waste. When I got home the night I felt it creeping in, I tried everything to rid myself of this unsightly 2nd head. Hot compress, stretching, prodding it, exfoliation, nothing worked. Damnber suggested a pin- which makes me think of rampent infection and badly done at home ear piercing. I have yet -in all my pimple experience- to find a simple, no mess GIANT zit cure. I've tried a medicated wash, which burned my eyes and left my skin palmolive clean; great for hands, not face. For a while I tried toothpaste, which dried out the core, but also peeled off 5 layers of the surrounding skin. In a new wave I thought perhaps a spring water spritzer might help- refreshing, but ultimately useless.
Pimples are something that personality can apparently out-shine and over-shadow (puns intended). The worst/best part is that my co-workers are pretending they can't see it. In my mind, they've had a secret pre-work meeting to discuss and laugh at my herpes looking mouth wound, you know, get it out of their system. All those I've asked about it's magnitude reply with: "I didn't even notice it actually." Well, that's kind, but I noticed it. I will also probably notice yours, when you get one... That being said, I will now be more supportive of people who have huge and very ugly but temporary mars on their typically fine faces. It's not a mountain, it's a mole...well it's a zit actually, but it's not that bad...If you can stop starring at it.
You can pick your nose and you can pick your friends, but you cant pick your friend's nose hairs; your brother's on the other hand that's a different story. Buddy-boy, I know you won't read this, but thanks for pre-approving my telling it:) His actual words being; "I won't read it, so whatever." My brother and I are very similar, though he thinks I am some sort of Golden Child, which is a lot of pressure, cuz I don't like to disappoint, and being the golden child, I am waiting for Eddie Murphy and the "I-ee-i-i-I want the knife". If you see us together, you can tell we're related. We laugh at our own jokes, we laugh before we've even told a joke. We're awesome. You know, we're awesome because we say so. It's a family thing.
Now, Buddy-boy is a tradesman. He works all day with wood and paint and hammers. He breathes in dirt and dust and indignation. He's supposed to wear a mask, but chooses not to. And I think it's for the same reason as I don't like wearing them, they make talking hard. Talking- well, ranting, that's another a family thing. How would the world survive without hearing what we've got to say- luckily, you'll never know, cuz we won't shut up.*insert knowing head nod. So, no mask means- his natural filter- his nose holes, are working OT. (It's unpaid OT as they are contracted under special Ontario Trades apprenticeship program) That being said- I think you can understand where I'm going with this... His nostrils are brimming with rogues- it's like an upside down vase with fuzzy stems poking out. It's amazing.
When he arrived at my house, looming over me, all I could see was nose hair. I was deaf to his words, in my mind what he was saying was: "Hey, sis, you should pluck this. I want you to get rid of them. Please, you're my only hope" What he was actually saying was he's falling in love, which is scary for him but I know it's really wicked! So, before I missed any other important information I stopped him. "Can I get those for you?" Pointing to his schnoze. "Pretty please? You'll look so much, well, less hairy. When your nose hairs start migrating to beard hairs... it's time to take them out." His answer? A resounding "NO!" suddenly Hubby chimes in, "You'd better just let her do it. She won't stop until they're gone". I turn to Hubby smiling, he gets me, he really gets me:) Finally, Buddy-boy agrees. I leap from my seat and reach for the tweezers (which there's a pair in every room and my purse) and a kleenex. Going straight to work, worried he'll change his mind. Buddy-boy tearing up and laughing at the same time. He knows that beauty is pain, just ask his 27 tattoos or piercings and mohawk. Having pulled 6 hairs- one of which I am pretty sure was attached to his brain, he stops me.
"That's good." he says with the matching suppression gesture.
"No, there's only 2 more." I whine,
"No, it's good." Recognizing the tone of his voice as the one that he typically uses before the Green light (green light means all systems Go! No holding back), I restrain myself.
I know that too much of a good thing can be painful, like those Big Gulp slushies no one can ever finish. Having nearly completed my mission, I am nearly satisfied that I will be sending him out into the City like the awesome dude he says he is (and actually is most days). I think for X-mas, I will get him an industrial face hole trimmer, or I'll just invite him over for a spa day with his fav Golden girl, which would actually be like a gift for both of us:)
|
RSS Feed