I don’t sit still. I mean, not ever. At work, I am required to sit for extended periods of time, and the best I can do to rally against the system there is to bob my knee up and down relentlessly. Yeah. Take THAT, 9-5 Lifestyle. I’ll..show you.
My body is a fidgety one: constantly shifting, adjusting, exercising, then injuring, healing, swaying (in place like my mother), expressing, gesturing, dancing. If that sounds like it would be a constant distraction for anyone sitting with me (though I’ve managed to curl my toes in my shoes discreetly if need be to hide the movement), you’d be right.
But it’s nothing compared to what’s happening in my head. The squirming on the outside is a physical manifestation of the mental gymnastics I’m executing for infinite Russian judges. Not gymnastics of any significant difficulty – no algebra or code sequencing. It’s just regular thought. SO MUCH THOUGHT all at once.
As an example, I recently blurted something out to my husband that was approximately the 5th step in a mental journey I was taking enirely alone.
Something thoughtful, something eloquent. I believe it was, “If I water did I? No, I’m good.”
“What?” my husband calmly asked, since he’s known me for 12 years and realizes I’m not having a stroke.
“I remembered that my water bottle was in my bag, and I was hoping it wasn’t on top of my lunch and squishing it. It wasn’t, plus I realized I packed everything I need to make lunch with the food I have at work.”
“Moves fast, doesn’t it? It’s so fast, your brain. I love you.” He’s a goodun. I’m keepin him.
Now, note that I’m remarking on the speed. Not the intelligence. I’m fairly smart, but there’s not some kind of burdensome intellect on my shoulders. Just words. Really. Really fast. And all the time.
While I physically bob, mentally weave, and my eyes glaze over, I am busy. I am insanely busy with work, writing, singing, acting, marketing, and oh, yeah…parenting. I fill my calendar with things I love to do, and apparently I love a lot. Meetings, talks, rehearsals, playdates, brunches, trainings, workouts, the occasional husband date (too infrequent, those). Busybusybusy. It’s the way I’ve always been.
So the segue into talking about my therapist probably isn’t a surprise, right? No? Ok. Great. She posited that I cannot get a handle on how I’m feeling a lot of the time becaue I’m just moving from one thing to the next. So much to do, so little time to react. She suggested I journal. Journal in short bursts when I am en route to something, how I’m feeling, and how I feel after.
It’s getting easier, but the first time I tried it I was commuting, balancing all my belongings on my lap, and listeing to an NPR podcast.
I’ve also started tracking my food and my workouts. Who can tell what the hell I ate that day? I’m busy! BUSY, I SAY!
*donuts fall into mouth while yelling, gains 5 lbs, becomes confused*
Surely, the distraction isn’t that bad, right? I don’t need to Memento my damn life to know which way is up. I can relax. I got this.
Mmm. Well. Not exactly. Here, allow me to tell you more than you’ve ever wanted to know EVER about me.
I use the Instead Softcup when I’m having my period. I keep meaning to buy a Diva Cup but…you know…distracted. These are little, flexible domes that go around the cervix and catch the menstrual blood. It’s cleaner, there’s less smell, you can have sex with them in and they’re just easier and less gross and painful than tampons for me. TA DA. Now you know.
Oh, no, I’m not done. Here’s more. YOU'RE WELCOME. You can wear these for up to 12 hours, depending on your flow. They’re…significant. They aren’t painful, and you don’t feel them after inserting, but…you know. Plastic dome on your cervix, howsitgoin.
I recently took one out with difficulty, confused as to why that was.
Because there were two. Two of them. Inside me.
That means one was in there for a month, kids. Just…hangin out. Hugging my cervix. A long, long, uncomfortable, month long hug.
I'm so cuddly! Just hold me FOREVER.
So I basically ended my period last month and just FUCKING FORGOT I was doing anything to keep myself from looking like I had a target on my crotch during said period. “Ok! Well that’s done. Where are those donuts?”
When I realized this, I sat in my bathroom in a daze for a while. Perhaps that was the superpowers I developed from contaminating my lady bits taking over.
Perhaps, it was brain stopping the ribbon competition in the floor exercise for a second and saying, “WOAH. Woah. Maybe…maybe we should slow down.”
That’s right. I took a “stop and smell the roses” message from my cervix and a foreign object I just left in it.
Because this is my life. You’d fidget, too.
"I'm so happy I didn't leave that in there!"
"Why? Who would fucking do that?"
"I dunno. Morons? YAY PERIODS!"