Fuck social smokers. I hate them. Or women that forget to eat. Or the self-righteous teetotalers that ‘just don’t like the taste of alcohol’. Screw you all. Seriously.
While you were ‘not even inhaling’ your friend’s bullshit menthol cigarette (that’s not even a cigarette BTW – that’s gum on fire), I was weeping over my last Camel at Allen Carr’s Easyway to Stop Smoking. And that time that you ‘lost your appetite’ from stress, I was ploughing through a cruffin (it’s a thing) in a hopeless attempt to quiet the bitch in my head.
Depending on my state of mind, I am either chugging down kale and turmeric smoothies (excellent for inflammation) or sucking on a bottle of Burgundy (less excellent for inflammation). It’s the best part of me and the worst part of me and nothing changes it. Not exercise. Not therapy. Not meditation.
I tried. I took 3 days off work to attend a course in Transcendental Meditation. A flame-haired woman, serene as fuck, gave me a mantra and asked me to sit still for 20 minutes. The thought of sitting still while I had a pile of things to do made me highly anxious, but her serenity was intoxicating and I wanted some of it.
Mantra. Mantra. I’ll check my emails later. Mantra. This is so unproductive. Mantra. Mantra. God I feel like a cappuchino. Mantra. I can’t believe a cappuchino has like 100 calories. Mantra. What would I choose if I had to choose between coffee and wine? I bet Gwyneth Paltrow doesn’t drink coffee. I bet she’s an excellent meditator. (Thoughts will pass you by. That’s normal. Just observe them and focus on the breath.) Mantra. Mantra. Dammit. I knew I would suck at this. My thigh is itchy. If I scratch it, this smug wench on my left will judge me. She’s been judging me all day. No she hasn’t. God I am so self-loathing. This is so good for me. Mantra. I hate this. She’s so serene. And pale. Maybe she’s anemic. Maybe I’m anemic. Maybe that’s why I’m tired. Maybe I don’t need meditation, I just need Ferrimed.
I lasted the full three days. I meditated for about a week after that. And I’ve beaten myself up for not meditating for about 9 years. Real winner.
It’s not all bad. Well channeled, my manic behavior is very productive. My home is organized within an inch of its life and I can juggle balls like Taylor Swift can juggle public personas. (too soon?)
Sometimes it’s exhausting to be wired like this, but sometimes, it’s exhilarating – on those days when the circuits are all properly connected and the current flows unhindered, lights shine. J