Stress Management

Our CFO has three CDs which he likes to alternate bi-weekly and which have become a form of mid-level office torture that feels pretty extreme these days. It's one thing to not like your job. It's another thing entirely to not like it, find out that it's possibly going to become obsolete at the hands of the same machete-wielding employment Grim Reaper who's cutting his way through all Manhattan office buildings and then be thrown into a weird sort of needing it/hating it/questioning why you even care about something that has given you acne, a drinking problem and anger issues in the first place conflict--all accompanied by the easy melodies of a.) Barbra Streisand in concert b.) Lionel Richie or c.) Genesis' Greatest Hits. The things is, he doesn't even switch them out. He'll just play one, all day long, over and over, for weeks at a time. Working across from him feels like being trapped in a retirement community's elevator with a ringing phone and a coffee maker.

As my personal hero Ellen Griswald would say, "under the circumstances", I have chosen to manage my stress in the following ways:

1.) By eating two bags of spicy Asian cracker mix, which is guaranteed to produce at least three canker sores before I'm outta here at 5:00.
2.) By using a paperclip to pick away at my perfect manicure, freshly painted yesterday with OPI Moscow Nights, a dusky, chocolate shimmer that, when chipped, makes my fingertips look as though I've dug them into someone's skin and begun to rip past the muscle. Freudian desire, perhaps.
3.) By reading the lengthy and pretentious accounts of visits to my dream Punta Cana resort on tripadvisor.com. Travel research is my weapon. The minute I see "10:00 a.m. conference call" in my email inbox, I go right to Google Maps and pick a destination. It's faster than morphine--a mantra that slips right into my veins and up to my brain: 'you are not trapped.'
4.) By trying on and wiping off every lip gloss in my desk drawer and then analyzing the color in my little gold antique mirror. Frost makes me look old. Pink makes me look cheap. It's decided, then. I pretty much can't wear lip gloss.

What I'm coming to realize is there's a sort of freedom in the intolerable. The absurdity of functioning too far beyond your limits feels like breathing inside a snakeskin right before it falls to the ground. But the unbearable itch of shedding a life that's too small does eventually give way to a brand new skin. Keeping this truth in my pocket as things begin to unravel is money in the bank. And yes, I think things are gonna have to unravel and possibly even break into a million little shards at my feet before I can build myself a bigger glass palace. But it's gonna be okay. If I get a slick new snakeskin me outta the deal, then I'm in.

Happenings

I thought today would be a good day to post some updates since I left you all hanging after my last post, wondering if I'd secure myself a proper rack and become an eastern medicine convert.

Alas, I have (and I did). I'm now taking all manner of herbal detox tinctures and monitoring the activity of my spleen. See, evidently (and according to my acupuncturist, who is fantastic) I have "Spleen Qi Deficiency". Apparently this is a malady quite common among New Yorkers. I've now had three sessions with this brilliant practioner and in that time I have to honestly say, I've begun to feel a bit buzzed. I would assume this energized, fluid feeling of buoyancy is Qi, which is finally becoming unblocked. So far I've had needles in my jaw, neck, the space between my first and second toe, my wrist and up and down my calves. What amazes me most is that everything is diagnosed by simply looking at my tongue and feeling my pulse. Then somehow this wicked maze of pointy sharp objects winding its way along my acupressure points drains out pain, anxiety and toxicity, all the while stimulating my muscles and stoking this internal Qi engine . It's bizarre and I'm totally willing to submit to it. I feel oddly centered and calm-- a feeling so foreign to me it almost seems like a new disease.

I'm still waiting to hear from school. I realize it's ridiculous to get anxious (which I am). Three weeks is not long at all. I just feel like everything hinges on this one possible turn of events. I need to make some major changes if I get accepted and I'd like as much time to totally upend myself as is possible. When I'm bored I like to keep busy by angsting over whether or not my essays were pedestrian.

On the fluffier side, I did in fact get the professional bra fitting. I won't go into lurid detail but suffice to say that perhaps the biggest lesson of this year is that making changes, however minor, creates emotional momentum and emotional momentum creates external progress. Even if it's progress in the form of something frilly. The whole femme fatale experience of the fitting started me thinking about overhauling my autumnal image. It's definitely gonna involve something purple and patent leather. Perhaps this is the year I'll finally try to pull off that sleek and age-defying Blade Runner look. On second thought, that would have to involve bangs. Back to square one.

The Off the Radar pilot is nearing its New York City debut. We plan to fully honor it with bells, whistles and wine. Every time I watch the footage I thank Honduras. I can't remember a time when I heard my own voice more clearly than on its silky shores.

So, all in all, more balls in the air, more balls in general and absolutely nothing certain except uncertainty. Time for another dandelion tea.
Cheers.

Celebrate Good Times

Well, at least I'm really good at waiting.

It's official. I applied for school. The notion that came to me in a dream as I slept in an island bungalow in Honduras now sits in an envelope on the desk of an admissions counselor at The New School--a mass of GPAs, demographic information, essay responses and course plans. Me, in matte, flat black and white, hoping to leap off the page into appealing relief. Truth be told, I'm so deep into this "living the life you wanna have" kick that I'm not even allowing for a plan b. It took me too damn long to figure out plan a. It's gotta work. I have no idea how long it'll be until I hear something. At least I've got Facebook to keep me company.

My mom told me once that if I can't learn to celebrate small victories, I'll never learn to celebrate the really huge ones. I can't believe how many things she's right about. This particular one, though, is so dead on. The morning that I walked into that school, transcripts in hand, and stepped onto the elevator with the leggings- and-scarves set was so...anticlimactic. I'd imagined the moment of handing my paperwork to the young woman behind the desk in Admissions and racing out to throw my hat in the air millions of times. 'I'll buy myself a fancy five dollar latte immediately after', I thought. 'I'll mark the milestone with that cement-colored nail polish I've wanted since May.' 'The treasured bottle of Moet I've been saving will finally be uncorked and I'll drink it straight outta the bottle.'

What I actually did was spend twenty minutes on the MTA and grab a shitty cup of Maxwell House at the office. God forbid I really have something to celebrate. I might just get excited enough to make a bowl of tuna salad and watch a rerun of Matlock.

So with this little lesson in mind and thinking ahead now, I'm gonna have two mini celebrations this week. That way when there's something really big to leap for joy over (i.e., getting IN) I won't have to ask how high. I'm gonna do two things I've always wanted to do that I hope will be like the milestone submitting my application was. One, I'm finally gonna get acupuncture. The list of reasons is too long to list here and anyway, who really wants to talk about indigestion and difficulty sleeping? I'm hoping it'll be a centering experience and that I'll get hooked and wanna go back. Two, I'm gonna get a professional bra fitting. Oh yes I did say that in this blog. I've always wanted to do it--actually see what they look like molded and sculpted by professionals into two shining orbs of glory. So, I've made an appointment at a little Upper East Side boutique to surrender my rack to a woman with a measuring tape and a handful of possibilities.

Bring on the celebrating, big, small, poked and perky.