Category Archives: ME ME ME

Runaway life

I am composing posts all the time in my head, but haven’t had a moment’s leisure to put them out here.  There are so many improvements in digital technology…I wish there would be a development wherein my thoughts are directly transcribed into my blog.

Of course there would be a lot of crap in there as well, in fact, you might have to do a phenomenal amount of sifting to make any sense in the jumbled, messy, crappy, stupid tiny trains of thoughts that start nowhere and reach no station you can identify, but at least my blog would be populated with words.

Ah well…

The following words are reminders of stuff to write about, rather than have the thoughts vaporise into the great wide open, into the sky so blue…and all that Tom Petty sang of.

  • lunch meeting – school friends
  • editing crap
  • makeup and mess
  • gym
  • food
  • headache
  • relaxation
  • Madonna

Until then, if you can make out anything from these disjoint words, yeah, that’s what I am thinking too…

Repeat

Ideally today’s post will be a repeat of yesterday’s.  Do you regret that my deadline got over?  I don’t blame you.

Let me list all the ways that today is bugging me:

a.  I forgot to take in the clothes from the clothes line yesterday and it rained.  I have two sets of daily wear, of which one was wet, and hence, I wore the other, which are my gym clothes – capris and t-shirt.  It is a clean enough outfit – washed and pressed, not too faded or crumpled, yet I always feel like I have just gymmed whenever I wear it – like I haven’t showered.   Don’t ask why. I have such weird quirks in life.

b. I sprained my neck last night. Need I say more?

c. Sat with math with my kid.  Realised she was terribly backlogged from class and there was considerable catching up to do. With this and that, the math session took four hours.  I am exhausted.  And have a headache to boot.  The only saving thought is that the kid probably understood polynomials.  As did I !

d. Had taken the kid and her friends to Guardians of galaxy at the local open air theater last night.  Couldn’t sit beyond the first scene. So, I let the kids watch the movie by themselves and decided to come out and sit by myself, sorting out my thoughts and being alone in silence instead of that Godawful din of the movie.  But when I got out of the theater, I was in a very restless, even agitated mood (from the day’s aggravations) and  couldn’t sit in one place.  So ended up pacing up and down the street for two hours straight.  My legs hurt now.

e. I have been getting emails from clients all weekend asking me to send me their stuff soon.  IT IS WEEKEND FOLKS. WEEKEND. I need weekends to NOT work.  Sheesh.

f. Am I coming down with a cold or flu or something? Oh bother.

You know, I have at least seven more complaints, but I am out of patience.

I hope this, to use the clinical term, “bitchiness” passes soon.

 

 

Aggrieved

There are those days and THOSE days.

Today is one of THOSE.

The Zen master inside me says the world cannot irritate me, only I can be irritated.

The rest of me gives the Zen master a rude finger.

The zen master smiles and irritates me further.

Bare your head folks, for you just saw the smile of a dying master.

PS:  I promise I did not attempt to write poetry.

PS2: I also promise this is not hormonal.  AT least not for me.  Everyone around seems to be swinging wildly though.

Of dreams and thoughts

The dreams are back, but with a variation. Usually, I would go unprepared for an exam, usually Tamil exam, in high school, and naked, to boot.  Or I would be lost in a colossal multi-storeyed white empty building with large stairs and run up and down these stairs in abject panic.  These days, I am in a large college campus, trying to find the classroom, and being completely unprepared for college.  Half the time I don’t even know which course I have taken, or if I do know which course I need to take, I have no clue what is going on.  There is no panic, but a dull sense of hopelessness.  My brain is a garbage dump, and really stinks once the lid of consciousness is opened in slumber.  My daughter gets weird dreams too, but my better half says that he does not remember any of his dreams and feels no aftertaste when he awakes.  I, on the other hand, need a couple of extra strong doses of coffee to break free of the gloom that lingers after I have awoken from my dreams.

Something else interesting happened.  Yesterday, a friend and I were discussing dreams.  This friend is a talker, and usually when we are conversing, it is one way, I listen more than talk, partly because I don’t like talking too much, and partly because this person leaves no breathing time for response.  This person notwithstanding, in general, contrary to my image from this very verbose blog, I am not a big talker.  As I told this friend about my consistent dreams of being unprepared (for exams/for class) , I was told “you have no thoughts in your mind…you never think of anything, hence the singular dream”.  The tone was not indicative of “you are thought-free, you enlightened soul”, rather, “you are stupid and empty upstairs”.  I know it because more than once I have been told by this person that I have no interests in anything (e.g. I don’t like watching movies, the only movies I watch are with family – both my better-half and kid like to watch movies, as “family time” rather than any personal interest in watching them), no passion (because I don’t passionately argue about or discuss anything), uncultured (because I don’t listen to music when I am working, and I am usually working most of the time), am a hamster-in-wheel (because I am doing something all the time without staring at the ceiling and thinking thoughts) and am, in effect, intellectually dead-as-a-dodo.  These have been told to me at different times, under different circumstances, and so I believe that “you don’t have thoughts in your head” is an extension of me being of vegetative state. For a moment, I flared up in my mind as “just because I don’t overthink everything and verbally vomit every thought that crosses my head, I am not a doorknob”, but figured that such a response would only lead to me having to listen to more arguments, and thus moved on.

The thought I had then was this:  It is so easy for the world to consider silent people/introverts as being stupid.  Being an introvert myself, let me tell you – we are not stupid.  In fact, we have more thoughts in our heads because we are not wasting time communicating it to others.  We don’t communicate our thoughts because we don’t need inputs from anyone else.  My thoughts usually range from banal stuff such as “where can I get a neem sapling to plant on my backyard” to philosophical/spiritual musings on God, mindfulness, hope, faith and death, none of which needs a recipient.   We are also sensitive people, and can gauge by the talker’s tone, what he/she really means beyond the words uttered, because WE LISTEN and not just hear.

A quote I subscribe to is “It is better to stay silent and let others think you are a fool, than open your mouth and waste time talking” !

 

 

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Exhaustion

Between completing a difficult document, trying to get a bank eff-up fixed, my friend’s application work done (HG:  I saw your comment after I completed the job and cursed myself for not thinking of it), grocery shopping, domestic chores (the maid bunked), extra workout (just because…), playing badminton with the kid because all her friends went AWOL today, playing a bit of football in the stadium with the kid and some new found football enthusiasts (young boys, who, I was pleased to note, called my kid “Akka” (big sister)), and a very hot day, I am pooped.  The night is young, but I don’t think I will be able to see it grow old !

Happy weekend folks.

Weighty matters

This may sound like body shamming, it isn’t.  Or at least I hope it isn’t.  It is a bit on the obsessive side, but I am sure anyone who has been through this would be able to relate.

When I was in grad school, the roommate in my second year was a thirty year old woman (I was around 24 – funny how six years seemed to matter so much then).  She was a small built woman, prone to putting on weight and so she was obsessed about fitness.  She went to the gym everyday and worked out for an hour, and blizzard or not, ran for an hour through the university township. She drank coffee with skim milk and shrank away from food with the comment “if I as much as see that goddamn pizza, I would put on a pound”. On the other end of the rainbow, I was addressed (uncharitably) as 2D-gobblefunkist by the brat Indian grads (largely boys) because I was stick thin.  I thought I was curvy, but was made to believe that the curves were in my imagination.  So in order to pad myself, I drank full-fat milk, had egg nog for breakfast every day and, although I hated cheese at that time, had subway sandwiches every alternate day with extra cheese, and macadamia nut cookies on the side.  The only allowance I gave myself was that I went to the gym every afternoon, to swim, because I was a fish in another birth and nothing makes me happier than water around me.

None of my padding efforts had any effect. At that time.  As I near 45, I can see the eggnog, vitamin D milk and cheezy sub in various parts of my body.  And they are very sociable foodgroups because they welcome other current foodgroups and give them space to live forever.  It is a wonder the body has energy to function at all, considering that all the calories I ingest choose to stay rather than burn.

This is fine. I don’t have problems with the natural fall of metabolism that comes with age, and resultant padding – I don’t want to body sham.  But where I worry is that the padding is not all on the outside and there are protective stuffed envelopes around my essential organs, making the latter groan.  I am particularly worried because the metabolic syndrome spectrum of diseases runs in my family (in addition to psychiatric disorders, osteoporosis and name-it-you-got-it).  When I visited my gyn recently for ovarian pains, she claimed that the only ways to deal with it, short of ripping my innards and throwing the non-essential-anymore organs away, are to pop in industrial strength acetaminophens when they act up, and make sure I get enough exercise to prevent visceral fat that can add to the strain on my reproductive organs.

I resumed the gym nearly three weeks ago, in addition to reduction of portion sizes.  I don’t overworkout because I am a fusspot of sorts.  20 minutes of interval training and 10 minutes of strength.  I stayed off the scale until last week, and as I had expected, the numbers on the scale were displeasing.  Today, a week later, I checked again.  What do you know.  A full one kilo (~2 lbs) UP.  Yes, UP.  I know a lovely person told me that it’s better to go by the tape than by the scale, and I remembered it as I stood on the scale, but I did feel like screaming.

Perhaps it is muscle weight gain.  Perhaps not.  From now on, no more scales for me, for sure.  I am doing this for my internal organs, and if 20 mins of interval training doesn’t do anything to them, so be it.  At least I would be using my gym membership.

Movie madness

I am on a roll with the matching word beginnings, or what.

I went to the movie “Lion” with the kid at our local open air theatre.  And cried buckets.  Buckets.  I was so embarrassed because my friend was sitting right next to me, and I couldn’t stop sobbing.  And then when I tried to stop myself from crying, my throat got all caught up, and started paining, the strain of trying not to cry gave me a headache, and not letting the water pour out of the eyes made my eyes smart.  Oh bother.

I am a complete nut case.  I can’t watch a single movie with a single sentimental scene without sobbing like a child.  In fact, I can’t even stop myself from getting all teary at the National Anthem that is sung now before all movies.  I usually start singing along with the aired version, but by the time I reach Jaya Hey, I am a mess.

Tsk Tsk.