I suppose if one is going to create a blog about persistence, it would be best to persist in actually writing the blog. To do otherwise is to slip into rather a public, meta-cognitive malaise, which is part of the reason I started doing this in the first place. Accountability....apparently, I can't function without it. Many apologies to my kind followers for the lapse in follow-through. Despite my inactivity I have, in fact, had lots of ideas for blog posts...
1. I used to write things and get them published. Why don't I do that anymore?
2. Why do I often do the exact opposite of what I know I should do in any given situation?
3. Does going to concerts count as a hobby?
4. Things I want to do this winter and why they make me super boring
5. Aaand, let's throw in the obligatory diet and exercise angst for good measure.
I will never actually subject anyone to number 5; it is more of a marker just to make it clear I'm just as shallow as everyone else.
Number 2 is probably best worked out on the couch, and number 1 feels like a set-up for regretful wallowing. Besides, today feels like a day to look forward, so I am going with a combination of 3 and 4.
One thing that I have persisted in quite spectacularly since moving to Portland is attending concerts. Doing this mostly by myself holds no shame or discomfort for me; in fact, I kind of like it. I can show up when I want, leave when I want, stand where I want, talk to whomever I want, and generally lead the kind of super self-centered existence that I apparently truly enjoy. That is not to say I don't like going with my friends, but being unable to locate a friend to go with doesn't deter me.
So, is this a hobby? I am not producing anything. I am not actually engaging in any activity myself (except showing up and buying beer and maybe a poster if it is rad and signed and numbered). And yet it is something I enjoy doing, seek out doing, do when I really shouldn't be doing it, and think about when I am not doing it. It is really the only thing besides feeding myself, sleeping, and working that I never hesitate to do or question whether I should do. (I mean, I certainly hesitate when it comes to working, but I believe in the concept of work and need to work to stay alive, so my hesitation comes more from the drudgery of daily execution rather than avoidance of the practice entirely.) Eating and sleeping and working are not hobbies. But perhaps an activity that feels so innately like something that I do as an unquestioned part of life should count as one. True artists are compelled to do art. Perhaps consuming art is my art.
But I would like to feel naturally compelled toward some activity that involves production or practice. I have two ideas while sailing is on the back burner for winter. One is playing the piano. The other is learning French.
Now, I realize that this pretty much makes me an Elizabeth Bennett wannabe and, before you know it, I will be asking my girlfriends to take turn about the room so we can show off our figures. (Wait, that wasn't Elizabeth...that was Bingley's sister? Or some other little Victorian bitch, I can't remember.) They are pretty much the whitest, most uncool and uptight activities a person could chose. BUT! How NOT uptight and SUPER cool would it be to walk into a jazz bar in Senegal and sit down at the piano and accompany myself while I sing in French!? Because I totally have the opportunity to do that all the time and I just can't pull it off in my current talentless, monolingual state.
Also, winter is a time to do things that can be done without leaving the house because, frankly, I have never given over to "embracing the rain." Since I will be riding my bike to work AND grocery shopping AND forcing my resentful dog to exercise in the rain, I just don't feel like I need to also sign up to soak myself while running or sailing or geocaching or saving stranded hikers (just kidding, I would never do that anyway). I want to be inside, hunkered down by my heater, running up my electricity bill in my Snuggie, preferably drinking Tuaca and hot apple cider. I want to be warm on my way to WASP-ish sophistication. And dry. And still (well, relatively still...gotta move them fingers to tickle the ivories). Like one of those rodents that buries itself under piles of debris for months at at time...except with Rosetta Stone.
This image, followed (naturally) by the Senegal-jazz-bar image, is so very pleasing to me that I am not in least afraid that I won't be able to do it. I won't be able to stop doing it. My neighbors will intervene because I will be improvising so effusively at three in the morning. Parisians will stop me on the street and embrace me as one of their own, so obvious will be my francophilia. I will be a drunken, babbling, Snuggie-clad, musical rodent. Nothing unnerving about that image.
I'm sure it will make lots of people want to go to concerts with me.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
WARNING: MANY, MANY METAPHORS WERE INJURED IN THE MAKING OF THIS POST
As part of my never-ending quest for self-improvement (self-fulfillment? self-actualization? no, definitely self-improvement) I decided to learn how to sail. Please allow me to note the deliberate word choice in previous sentence. I did not decide that I wanted to learn how to sail or that I would try to learn how to sail (please mentally insert Yoda "there is no try" quote here) but that I was going to do it, dammit. About 75% of those with whom I shared this information informed me that sailing was for rich people and accused me of trying to dig up a wealthy husband. Since the thought of digging up any husband who doesn't have a criminal record or twelve children much less any actual money seems pretty unlikely at this point, I blithely ignored those who doubted my motives and signed up for a day-long class at the local sailing club. Yes, mateys, I was ready to batten down the hatches and learn the ropes.
The trouble began when I looked at the supply list for the class. Most of it was fairly straight forward. Lunch, sunblock, water bottle: check! Some of the items, however, were a little less obvious. Boat shoes? Quick dry pants? Like...the kind Bear Grylls wears? Or are my yoga pants ok? And of course, underneath the quick-dry pants, the instructors wanted us to wear a bathing suit. Fabulous! Nothing I would rather do than wear a bathing suit in front of a dozen strangers. Oh yeah, except I don't actually own a bathing suit, since most of the public "bathing" that I do involves laying by pools or drinking beer in hot tubs, both of which can be adequately accomplished wearing underwear. But I was not going to let my wardrobe limitations stand in the way of my date with the open sea (or the Willamette river, as was the case), so I set my alarm for 7:00 on Sunday morning, determined to locate these items before we pulled up the anchor at 10:00.
Things I Would Rather Have Been Doing When I Woke Up at 7:00 on Sunday Morning:
1. Anything other than waking up to go shopping
2. Anything other than waking up to go sailing
2. Anything other than waking up at all
That pretty much captures it. At that point, the thought of parading around a marina in my underwear seemed like a perfectly acceptable option if the alternative meant leaving my lovely warm bed before it was aaaabsolutely necessary. And so I snoozed. And snoozed. And...
Somehow in the middle of all this snoozing it became 9:30. Fuck. But I was up! And searching for non-moldy food to bring for lunch! And for yoga pants! And my keys! When I finally sprinted out the door, my GPS informed me that my journey would take 16 minutes with traffic. It was 9:44. If every single thing went exactly right between now and my arrival at the sailing club, there was a possibility I could avoid being the girl who both wore her underwear instead of a bathing suit and made everybody wait at the dock. I had already reconciled myself to the first; I really didn't want to be both.
Fast forward about 5 minutes to me realizing I have no idea where I parked my car. Fast forward another 5 minutes to me finding the car but realizing I have almost no gas. Let's leap ahead once more to me sitting in the traffic which my f***ing GPS claimed to have accounted for when, in fact, it pretty much just threw me under the bus. Or rather behind the bus. Or rather behind 12,000 non-moving buses.
At this point I came dangerously close to bailing out (ha), going home, and getting back into bed. I could feel the despair and self-loathing boiling inside me. "Why," I demanded of myself as the panic spiraled out of control, "Am I the kind of person who always oversleeps, never has any gas, AND DOESN'T OWN A GODDAM BATHING SUIT!!! WTF???"
But then, suddenly, the traffic parted ways! My exit lay before my, clear of cars and beckoning my sputtering ship like the northern star. The fumes I was running on lasted all the way to the sailing club and I was only FIVE minutes late!
The rest of the day is a story for another time. However, I can say with confidence that I did not humiliate myself any more than any other participant, and if anyone laughed at my fake bathing suit they did so privately. Overall it was a good experience. Now I am left hoping I can capture the serenity and joy that I felt upon seeing that exit, and channel it the next time I am freaking out in the middle of a completely avoidable clusterfuck. I mean, I guess I could focus on avoiding clusterfucks instead of channeling unexpected moments of Zen, but frankly that seems like a set up for failure. I may not be in my nature to avoid disaster, but I can do my best to see it through with some panache. Even if my sails get a little tattered, at least I am trying new things, come self-created hell or high water.
The trouble began when I looked at the supply list for the class. Most of it was fairly straight forward. Lunch, sunblock, water bottle: check! Some of the items, however, were a little less obvious. Boat shoes? Quick dry pants? Like...the kind Bear Grylls wears? Or are my yoga pants ok? And of course, underneath the quick-dry pants, the instructors wanted us to wear a bathing suit. Fabulous! Nothing I would rather do than wear a bathing suit in front of a dozen strangers. Oh yeah, except I don't actually own a bathing suit, since most of the public "bathing" that I do involves laying by pools or drinking beer in hot tubs, both of which can be adequately accomplished wearing underwear. But I was not going to let my wardrobe limitations stand in the way of my date with the open sea (or the Willamette river, as was the case), so I set my alarm for 7:00 on Sunday morning, determined to locate these items before we pulled up the anchor at 10:00.
Things I Would Rather Have Been Doing When I Woke Up at 7:00 on Sunday Morning:
1. Anything other than waking up to go shopping
2. Anything other than waking up to go sailing
2. Anything other than waking up at all
That pretty much captures it. At that point, the thought of parading around a marina in my underwear seemed like a perfectly acceptable option if the alternative meant leaving my lovely warm bed before it was aaaabsolutely necessary. And so I snoozed. And snoozed. And...
Somehow in the middle of all this snoozing it became 9:30. Fuck. But I was up! And searching for non-moldy food to bring for lunch! And for yoga pants! And my keys! When I finally sprinted out the door, my GPS informed me that my journey would take 16 minutes with traffic. It was 9:44. If every single thing went exactly right between now and my arrival at the sailing club, there was a possibility I could avoid being the girl who both wore her underwear instead of a bathing suit and made everybody wait at the dock. I had already reconciled myself to the first; I really didn't want to be both.
Fast forward about 5 minutes to me realizing I have no idea where I parked my car. Fast forward another 5 minutes to me finding the car but realizing I have almost no gas. Let's leap ahead once more to me sitting in the traffic which my f***ing GPS claimed to have accounted for when, in fact, it pretty much just threw me under the bus. Or rather behind the bus. Or rather behind 12,000 non-moving buses.
At this point I came dangerously close to bailing out (ha), going home, and getting back into bed. I could feel the despair and self-loathing boiling inside me. "Why," I demanded of myself as the panic spiraled out of control, "Am I the kind of person who always oversleeps, never has any gas, AND DOESN'T OWN A GODDAM BATHING SUIT!!! WTF???"
But then, suddenly, the traffic parted ways! My exit lay before my, clear of cars and beckoning my sputtering ship like the northern star. The fumes I was running on lasted all the way to the sailing club and I was only FIVE minutes late!
The rest of the day is a story for another time. However, I can say with confidence that I did not humiliate myself any more than any other participant, and if anyone laughed at my fake bathing suit they did so privately. Overall it was a good experience. Now I am left hoping I can capture the serenity and joy that I felt upon seeing that exit, and channel it the next time I am freaking out in the middle of a completely avoidable clusterfuck. I mean, I guess I could focus on avoiding clusterfucks instead of channeling unexpected moments of Zen, but frankly that seems like a set up for failure. I may not be in my nature to avoid disaster, but I can do my best to see it through with some panache. Even if my sails get a little tattered, at least I am trying new things, come self-created hell or high water.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Les Hommes Folle
So, I've been thinking about this for a while now and I have come to the conclusion that I need to watch more television. I realize this is the opposite of what many people say about their television habits, and I don't mean it in a douchey "I just can't find the time because I am too busy saving baby sea turtles and writing to prisoners on death row" kind of way. I actually think that my lack of interest in TV is a symptom of a character flaw that prevents me from engaging in many outside interest, not just interests that happen to live in a flickering box (wait...do TVs still flicker?).
I think what it comes down to is an inability to persist. Take Weeds for example. Actually, don't take Weeds for an example because that show sucks. Take...Mad Men for example. Actually, that won't work because I've never actually seen it. No, DO take Mad Men for an example and just pretend I watched the first few episodes. (It will work as well as any other example; the reason I've never seen it illustrates the same point I am trying to make.) Okay, so everyone loves Mad Men and I decide that I might love it too. What's not to love? Secretary chic, six martini lunches, yadda yadda yadda. But about 1.5 episodes in I start to get this restless, anxious feeling. Like I am not enjoying this enough to make it worth the time. Or, if I am enjoying it, that it is the wrong kind of enjoyment and if I am going to devote so much of my time to something it should be something more "worthwhile." So I back out. I break off with the series. And I don't feel bad about it...yet.
But the thing is, I never actually devote those hours to anything remotely productive. I drift around online or I do my half-assed housecleaning thing or I read or I force my dog to go for a walk. But I don't learn French and I don't learn to play the piano and I don't go running and I don't ever even get my house really clean. So I might as well have watched Mad Men so I will know what people are talking about when that show (or any show, really) inevitably comes up at parties.
"Watch TV or learn French" isn't exactly the same thing as "shit or get off the pot" but it isn't entirely dissimilar either, in my case. If persisting in activities is not my strong point (and I think we've firmly established that it is not) then I might as well pick something to persist in even if it isn't particularly "worthwhile." Perhaps I can think of it as practicing. If I get good at watching television, maybe I will exercise the parts of my brain that crash out and keep me from pressing on in other areas. So, if my theory holds any water at all, watching television might be like training wheels for learning French or playing the piano or managing to run more than 3 miles at a time. This might be delusional self-talk, but it seems no more harmful or delusional than my usual self-talk and, heck, it's good to mix that shit up a little.
Which leaves just one question: How do you say "Mad Men" in French?
I think what it comes down to is an inability to persist. Take Weeds for example. Actually, don't take Weeds for an example because that show sucks. Take...Mad Men for example. Actually, that won't work because I've never actually seen it. No, DO take Mad Men for an example and just pretend I watched the first few episodes. (It will work as well as any other example; the reason I've never seen it illustrates the same point I am trying to make.) Okay, so everyone loves Mad Men and I decide that I might love it too. What's not to love? Secretary chic, six martini lunches, yadda yadda yadda. But about 1.5 episodes in I start to get this restless, anxious feeling. Like I am not enjoying this enough to make it worth the time. Or, if I am enjoying it, that it is the wrong kind of enjoyment and if I am going to devote so much of my time to something it should be something more "worthwhile." So I back out. I break off with the series. And I don't feel bad about it...yet.
But the thing is, I never actually devote those hours to anything remotely productive. I drift around online or I do my half-assed housecleaning thing or I read or I force my dog to go for a walk. But I don't learn French and I don't learn to play the piano and I don't go running and I don't ever even get my house really clean. So I might as well have watched Mad Men so I will know what people are talking about when that show (or any show, really) inevitably comes up at parties.
"Watch TV or learn French" isn't exactly the same thing as "shit or get off the pot" but it isn't entirely dissimilar either, in my case. If persisting in activities is not my strong point (and I think we've firmly established that it is not) then I might as well pick something to persist in even if it isn't particularly "worthwhile." Perhaps I can think of it as practicing. If I get good at watching television, maybe I will exercise the parts of my brain that crash out and keep me from pressing on in other areas. So, if my theory holds any water at all, watching television might be like training wheels for learning French or playing the piano or managing to run more than 3 miles at a time. This might be delusional self-talk, but it seems no more harmful or delusional than my usual self-talk and, heck, it's good to mix that shit up a little.
Which leaves just one question: How do you say "Mad Men" in French?
Monday, July 18, 2011
"Walk" is Just a Four Letter Word
I have a very intelligent dog who is also a bit of a drama queen. Actually, if I am being honest, she is a full-blown prima donna. In an eye rolling contest she could send any thirteen-year-old girl running to back to mother in tears. She sulks. She sighs. She casts contemptuous glances over her shoulder. She reminds me of me when I "DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT," but I "DAMN WELL WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT I AM NOT HAPPY." We make quite a pair.
As my dog gets older, I notice her behavior becoming more and more polarized. At any given moment she appears to be either overcome with joy or wallowing in misery. No fair-to-midland days for her. She has adopted the same attitude toward exercise, which is where her polarization and my frequent motivational crashes have reached a troubling intersection. This dog has only two settings: comatose or berserk. Comatose is for home, and berserk is for the dog park which I am grossly overpaying to live near but cannot actually utilize for fear of being sued.
When at home, my darling princess either wants to be laying in closet # 1 behind a pile of my shoes, or laying in closet # 2 where she can keep a wary eye on things as she drifts in and out of sleep (insert your own closeted gay dog joke here). In a shift from her younger years, she does look out the window, does not follow me around, and does not play with toys unless another dog is on the premises. At the rent-busting dog park, however, she loves nothing more than to run full-speed toward the first dog she sees, barking at the top of her lungs and snapping at its face. Snapping...as in you can hear her teeth clack and gnash against each other as she bites down over and over again at the air just centimeters from her chosen victim's eyeballs.
The dog does not like to walk and lets me know this in no uncertain terms every time I drag her out of the house (see: eye rolling, sighing, etc).
Given her propensity for inactivity, I really have to prioritize exercising this dog. Given her propensity for appearing to be homicidal, my choices for exercising her are:
1. Take her to the dog park and invite the contempt of my fellow human patrons
2. Walk her and guarantee the contempt of my pet
3. Drive her far away from civilization where she can roam like a wild creature but possibly get eaten by a mountain lion
I could have included "4. Take her running" on that list but...let's just keep fantasy and self-delusion out of this, shall we?
The upshot of all this is I find myself in yet another deeply loving but mismatched relationship: myself, a luke-warm exerciser and my darling mutt happy only when either completely sedentary or going full throttle and snarling. I force her to take the middle ground with me out of duty and necessity, but when we walk she literally drags her feet until we turn around, at which point her little nails start clicking the pavement in joyful anticipation of her pending reunion with the closet floor.
Clearly, I know what it would take to make my dog happy all the time. The truth is, however, that I am unwilling to build my entire schedule around the activities it would take to accommodate her very particular set of personal desires/neuroses. "She's a dog," I tell myself. "You're the person. She goes on multiple walks every day. She shouldn't have the power to make you feel so inadequate." But it is a little painful to know I could never (not that I would want to) wear one of those T-shirts that says, "Lord, let me become the kind of person my dog thinks I am." My dog knows exactly what kind of person I am. I can only hope to become the person we both wish I was.
One things I will say for our relationship is that much of the time we're walking together, particularity first thing in the morning, my dog and I are sharing exactly the same emotion. As we skulk along at 7 am each day, we both want nothing more than to return home and lie on the floor for a few more minutes, to give over to gravity for just a little longer before the the day--and the realities it holds--becomes unavoidable. At the very least we are excellent partners in sloth.
As my dog gets older, I notice her behavior becoming more and more polarized. At any given moment she appears to be either overcome with joy or wallowing in misery. No fair-to-midland days for her. She has adopted the same attitude toward exercise, which is where her polarization and my frequent motivational crashes have reached a troubling intersection. This dog has only two settings: comatose or berserk. Comatose is for home, and berserk is for the dog park which I am grossly overpaying to live near but cannot actually utilize for fear of being sued.
When at home, my darling princess either wants to be laying in closet # 1 behind a pile of my shoes, or laying in closet # 2 where she can keep a wary eye on things as she drifts in and out of sleep (insert your own closeted gay dog joke here). In a shift from her younger years, she does look out the window, does not follow me around, and does not play with toys unless another dog is on the premises. At the rent-busting dog park, however, she loves nothing more than to run full-speed toward the first dog she sees, barking at the top of her lungs and snapping at its face. Snapping...as in you can hear her teeth clack and gnash against each other as she bites down over and over again at the air just centimeters from her chosen victim's eyeballs.
The dog does not like to walk and lets me know this in no uncertain terms every time I drag her out of the house (see: eye rolling, sighing, etc).
Given her propensity for inactivity, I really have to prioritize exercising this dog. Given her propensity for appearing to be homicidal, my choices for exercising her are:
1. Take her to the dog park and invite the contempt of my fellow human patrons
2. Walk her and guarantee the contempt of my pet
3. Drive her far away from civilization where she can roam like a wild creature but possibly get eaten by a mountain lion
I could have included "4. Take her running" on that list but...let's just keep fantasy and self-delusion out of this, shall we?
The upshot of all this is I find myself in yet another deeply loving but mismatched relationship: myself, a luke-warm exerciser and my darling mutt happy only when either completely sedentary or going full throttle and snarling. I force her to take the middle ground with me out of duty and necessity, but when we walk she literally drags her feet until we turn around, at which point her little nails start clicking the pavement in joyful anticipation of her pending reunion with the closet floor.
Clearly, I know what it would take to make my dog happy all the time. The truth is, however, that I am unwilling to build my entire schedule around the activities it would take to accommodate her very particular set of personal desires/neuroses. "She's a dog," I tell myself. "You're the person. She goes on multiple walks every day. She shouldn't have the power to make you feel so inadequate." But it is a little painful to know I could never (not that I would want to) wear one of those T-shirts that says, "Lord, let me become the kind of person my dog thinks I am." My dog knows exactly what kind of person I am. I can only hope to become the person we both wish I was.
One things I will say for our relationship is that much of the time we're walking together, particularity first thing in the morning, my dog and I are sharing exactly the same emotion. As we skulk along at 7 am each day, we both want nothing more than to return home and lie on the floor for a few more minutes, to give over to gravity for just a little longer before the the day--and the realities it holds--becomes unavoidable. At the very least we are excellent partners in sloth.
Friday, July 15, 2011
My God...what have I done???
One of the problems with being a neruo crasher is that ideas that seems really exciting at the time of conception rarely survive in the harsh light of day. Sometimes this is because they really weren't good ideas to begin with, but more often it is because the idea-haver (in this case me) talks herself out of things a little too easily. Sadly, this means that many good impulses and ideas don't get followed up and the haver is left with little to show and, even worse, withdrawing from all that intoxicating initial excitement and anticipation.
Take this blog, for example. Yesterday, the thought of processing my issues around motivation, personal growth, and emotional paralysis seemed like a grand idea. Today, not only has no book deal materialized overnight, but the thought of my parents realizing that I might lack motivation or be stunted in the personal growth department is bringing on symptoms of emotional paralysis. And I am not even kidding. What have I done!? How do I delete a blog? Is that even possible? Why don't I know anything about modern technology or the Internet? Aaaagh! Paralysis!!!
I am tempted to make a list of all the things I have gotten excited about but failed to actually follow through on, but I think if I do that rigor mortis might set in. So, instead I am going to think of things that motivate me.
Things That Make Me Get Shit Done
1. The knowledge that if I don't do it, someone will be disappointed in me
2. The knowledge that if I do, I will be encouraged to drink alcohol when I'm finished
3. The knowledge that if I can tell others I did it, I will feel cool
4. The sense of relief that comes from no longer feeling bad about not having done it
Oookay, so that's an honest list, but not a very honorable one. Conspicuously absent: THE SATISFACTION OF A JOB WELL DONE. Oh well. Why include it on the GSD List if it doesn't work? So my parents won't think they raised a pathetic loser motivated more by alcohol and shame than by personal achievement? That's a different list. That might be a whole different blog, actually.
For now I am satisfied with the honest, if somewhat disgraceful, set of motivations stated here. So, the next time one of my ideas starts to get moldy, I am going to find the nearest authority figure and tell that person my idea in the hopes that he or she will hold me accountable for following through on it, after which I can go drinking where I can brag to everyone about what an awesome thing I did, and finally wake up feeling hungover but free of that nagging "dream-deferred" feeling. This is totally gonna work.
Take this blog, for example. Yesterday, the thought of processing my issues around motivation, personal growth, and emotional paralysis seemed like a grand idea. Today, not only has no book deal materialized overnight, but the thought of my parents realizing that I might lack motivation or be stunted in the personal growth department is bringing on symptoms of emotional paralysis. And I am not even kidding. What have I done!? How do I delete a blog? Is that even possible? Why don't I know anything about modern technology or the Internet? Aaaagh! Paralysis!!!
I am tempted to make a list of all the things I have gotten excited about but failed to actually follow through on, but I think if I do that rigor mortis might set in. So, instead I am going to think of things that motivate me.
Things That Make Me Get Shit Done
1. The knowledge that if I don't do it, someone will be disappointed in me
2. The knowledge that if I do, I will be encouraged to drink alcohol when I'm finished
3. The knowledge that if I can tell others I did it, I will feel cool
4. The sense of relief that comes from no longer feeling bad about not having done it
Oookay, so that's an honest list, but not a very honorable one. Conspicuously absent: THE SATISFACTION OF A JOB WELL DONE. Oh well. Why include it on the GSD List if it doesn't work? So my parents won't think they raised a pathetic loser motivated more by alcohol and shame than by personal achievement? That's a different list. That might be a whole different blog, actually.
For now I am satisfied with the honest, if somewhat disgraceful, set of motivations stated here. So, the next time one of my ideas starts to get moldy, I am going to find the nearest authority figure and tell that person my idea in the hopes that he or she will hold me accountable for following through on it, after which I can go drinking where I can brag to everyone about what an awesome thing I did, and finally wake up feeling hungover but free of that nagging "dream-deferred" feeling. This is totally gonna work.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
It seemed so simple...
For several weeks now I have wanted to see the move Buck. I first saw the preview when I went to see Cave of Forgotten Dreams and listened to Werner Hertzog drone on about albino alligators while stalagmites floated in front of my face. Prior to the stalagmites, however, Buck's promised combination of troubled horses and Eddie Vedder soundtrack made me tear up like a little girl (which ended up working for me, actually, once the 3D glasses went on and the trippy cave paintings started popping out all over the place). I knew Buck was both limited release and limited engagement, but accomplishing my goal of seeing this film should have been no problem considering that the only way for it to be more accessible to me would be if "Buck" himself started whispering to horses in my house.
Steps it Would Take to Actually Accomplish my Goal:
1. Exit my home
2. Turn right
3. Walk half a block
4. Purchase a ticket
5. Sit on my ass
It seemed so simple. And yet every time I attempt to execute this plan, I would find a reason to do something else instead. Like do my laundry. Or return my shoes to Anthropologie. "WTF is my problem?" I asked myself, as I ordered new contacts lenses. "I planned to go to this movie all day. So why am I not at the damn movies?" (Did I mention they serve wine at this movie theater???)
Potential Reasons I Have Not Accomplished my Goal:
1. Walking half a block is really hard when my couch is right there
2. I don't want to leave my dog alone for that long
3. I am cheap
4. Going to the movies by myself would make me look like a loser
5. I am concerned that this movie may make me really emotional and crying alone in a movie theater would really make me look like a loser
6. I'm pretending that I can't justify the choice to spend time/money/energy doing something I don't need to do if I can more easily find something I do need to do and therefor can congratulate myself on being responsible without having to risk items # 4 or 5
There is probably an element of all those items woven into my non-Buck-seeing condition, but I think # 6 may actually sum up the mental block I have toward doing a lot of things I want to do but don't. This does not include hanging out with friends (I can justify that all day long) but more the solo adventures that I envisioned myself having all the time when I moved to Portland. This is a neuro crash that is preventing me from having the single-girl-on-the-go life I moved here to have, and one that I need to overcome. It isn't that I am super responsible, it is that I need to place more of a value on life outside my home and my comfort zone and stop avoiding it by pretending that I'll get to exploring the city (or at least the art cinema stumbling distance from my house) once my fish tank is clean.
Did I mention the movie theater has wine?
Steps it Would Take to Actually Accomplish my Goal:
1. Exit my home
2. Turn right
3. Walk half a block
4. Purchase a ticket
5. Sit on my ass
It seemed so simple. And yet every time I attempt to execute this plan, I would find a reason to do something else instead. Like do my laundry. Or return my shoes to Anthropologie. "WTF is my problem?" I asked myself, as I ordered new contacts lenses. "I planned to go to this movie all day. So why am I not at the damn movies?" (Did I mention they serve wine at this movie theater???)
Potential Reasons I Have Not Accomplished my Goal:
1. Walking half a block is really hard when my couch is right there
2. I don't want to leave my dog alone for that long
3. I am cheap
4. Going to the movies by myself would make me look like a loser
5. I am concerned that this movie may make me really emotional and crying alone in a movie theater would really make me look like a loser
6. I'm pretending that I can't justify the choice to spend time/money/energy doing something I don't need to do if I can more easily find something I do need to do and therefor can congratulate myself on being responsible without having to risk items # 4 or 5
There is probably an element of all those items woven into my non-Buck-seeing condition, but I think # 6 may actually sum up the mental block I have toward doing a lot of things I want to do but don't. This does not include hanging out with friends (I can justify that all day long) but more the solo adventures that I envisioned myself having all the time when I moved to Portland. This is a neuro crash that is preventing me from having the single-girl-on-the-go life I moved here to have, and one that I need to overcome. It isn't that I am super responsible, it is that I need to place more of a value on life outside my home and my comfort zone and stop avoiding it by pretending that I'll get to exploring the city (or at least the art cinema stumbling distance from my house) once my fish tank is clean.
Did I mention the movie theater has wine?
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