The sensation of having to urinate. I mean, when you REALLY have to pee. That has got to be one of the worst feelings in the world.
Peeing in a cup is one of my worst fears. Ok, maybe it’s not a fear, but I truly detest it. Confession: I have a shy bladder. I don’t like going to the bathroom when I know other people are around. It’s not crippling, I manage, but I had to acclimate myself to it over the years. The trick is to try not to think about it. (But please, if you are ever in the same public restroom as me, refrain from talking to me until I’m washing my hands.)
Anyway, she says in a quieted and shamed tone, producing a sample of urine on demand is a quest for the urinating-challenged – the pressure involved is overwhelming. So the last time I was asked to do so, I prepared myself. I made an early appointment. I did not head to the bathroom upon waking. I engulfed two large glasses of water and a jumbo thermos of tea in the fifteen minutes before I left for the lab where I was to produce the sample.
By the time I arrived, early, I was confident in my ability to achieve the task at hand. By the time my name was read and I was told that the lab where I actually made my appointment was down the hall on the left, I was confident that my bladder would explode leaving me dead immediately. (Why there are two separate medical labs on the same level in the same office building still baffles me.) By the time I signed the new log-in, explained my tardiness (“It happens all the time,” she said.), and sat down to wait yet again, I was dancing in my seat like a three year old with similar bladder issues. I really had to pee.
Crossing my legs, closing my eyes, trying not to think of it. If I went to the bathroom now, I certainly would fail to deliver. But it hurt to even tap my toes at this point. I HAD to go to the bathroom . . . was it possible to pee just a little bit to relieve this horrible, awful, no-good pain now shooting through my pelvis? Do I have enough control not to completely relieve myself? I have got to try.
I’m pretty sure that it is the absolute worst feeling in the world. Next time I’m feeling down or ill I’ll remind myself of that and see what my opinion is then. But, lessons learned. Know your limits when imbibing liquids. Peeing “just a little bit” is possible. When preparing, always account for wait time and the unexpected. And never, never prepare for elimination.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Simplicity
Do you remember those Herbal essence commercials – the ones that shamelessly employ the almost-entendre that is “organic?” I don’t even know if they run those commercials anymore, but I was thinking of it in the shower the other day and realized, when I lather my hair I’m much more concentrated than that. I certainly don’t look like the women in the commercial. Mainly because I don’t look like the women in the commercial, but also, I certainly don’t make those facial expressions. My facial expression resembles something closer to the one made when screwing a light bulb into a fixture just out of reach, rather than one that is, well you know . . . shall we just say it’s not a John-Mayer-guitar-playing face.
And although I consider the scent of shampoo before I buy it, it’s for absolutely no aroma-therapeutic purpose – the squinty face I’m making usually prevents inhalation. I don’t know why I concentrate so hard; scrubbing isn’t that difficult. Despite my unusual attentiveness to scouring my scalp, however, I’m pretty sure that those commercials could be construed as false advertising. Shampoo is not that pleasing. To further hamper any pleasure there could be, there is a tiny wince of guilt if I linger in the shower a minute longer than necessary for fear of wasting water.
Simple pleasures, where have they gone? Personally, unless it involves chocolate, I’m typically not truly fulfilled anymore by the simple things. And honestly, even my chocolate standards have risen to the dark chocolate plane. What do we lose with the development of our palates?
I’m forever looking for an adventure, whether in considering my next big life decision or purchasing a Zahtar spice mixture at the farmer’s market and researching what in the world to do with it. Maybe there are too many options available to us that we take our lives for granted. Maybe we expect too much from ourselves, our experiences, our possibilities. Maybe our imaginations and egos and hopes are bloated more than a PMS craving for potato chips. Maybe we want too much of some indefinable unknown to allow ourselves to enjoy the leisure and privilege of a hot shower.
Or maybe I’m just weird. Maybe people do relax in the shower and breathe in the forest-y scents that transcend them to a most “organic” place. I don’t know, maybe. Maybe I can re-learn to be content in simplicity.
And although I consider the scent of shampoo before I buy it, it’s for absolutely no aroma-therapeutic purpose – the squinty face I’m making usually prevents inhalation. I don’t know why I concentrate so hard; scrubbing isn’t that difficult. Despite my unusual attentiveness to scouring my scalp, however, I’m pretty sure that those commercials could be construed as false advertising. Shampoo is not that pleasing. To further hamper any pleasure there could be, there is a tiny wince of guilt if I linger in the shower a minute longer than necessary for fear of wasting water.
Simple pleasures, where have they gone? Personally, unless it involves chocolate, I’m typically not truly fulfilled anymore by the simple things. And honestly, even my chocolate standards have risen to the dark chocolate plane. What do we lose with the development of our palates?
I’m forever looking for an adventure, whether in considering my next big life decision or purchasing a Zahtar spice mixture at the farmer’s market and researching what in the world to do with it. Maybe there are too many options available to us that we take our lives for granted. Maybe we expect too much from ourselves, our experiences, our possibilities. Maybe our imaginations and egos and hopes are bloated more than a PMS craving for potato chips. Maybe we want too much of some indefinable unknown to allow ourselves to enjoy the leisure and privilege of a hot shower.
Or maybe I’m just weird. Maybe people do relax in the shower and breathe in the forest-y scents that transcend them to a most “organic” place. I don’t know, maybe. Maybe I can re-learn to be content in simplicity.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Flight
When was the last time you closed your eyes and imagined you could take flight? Do you remember the feeling that you were soaring through the sky, maybe with a cape or wings, but never on an airplane? As a child these moments were easy to find – a sunny day, a jump off the trampoline or diving board, that simple jump into make believe – and you were flying without even trying. Flight, feet far off the floor, wind whisking over your body, gravity non-existent.
As an adult, that feeling is hard to find. Actual flight is what takes you from one point to another. Procedure, lines, baggage, fees weigh you down. Your ideas of flight are encumbered by fears of what happens if something goes wrong – when you’re that far in the air, gravity is sure to set in at some point, what if you lose control? Safety tips are restated, you are protected by steel and people who know what they are doing at the wheel.
As an adult, there are few times that you can fly with your feet still on the ground. Only speed and remarkable experiences send you into flight. Maybe jumping off a cliff, or out of a plane, maybe, but the fear factor is there. Definitely driving down an empty highway on a semi-cold night with the windows down and a favorite soulful song in the speakers sends you into orbit. Standing on a sidewalk on a blustery British day, just standing, with the wind whirling between your legs so that at any moment you are sure that takeoff is near, and then you close your eyes. Flight.
These moments are rare, and easily missed. Close your eyes. Imagine. Believe. And maybe, maybe wings will sprout, for a short time at least. Maybe we spend too much of our waking hours with our eyes open and our minds focused. I am seeking to find flight again – breathtaking, unprotected, fearless flight.
As an adult, that feeling is hard to find. Actual flight is what takes you from one point to another. Procedure, lines, baggage, fees weigh you down. Your ideas of flight are encumbered by fears of what happens if something goes wrong – when you’re that far in the air, gravity is sure to set in at some point, what if you lose control? Safety tips are restated, you are protected by steel and people who know what they are doing at the wheel.
As an adult, there are few times that you can fly with your feet still on the ground. Only speed and remarkable experiences send you into flight. Maybe jumping off a cliff, or out of a plane, maybe, but the fear factor is there. Definitely driving down an empty highway on a semi-cold night with the windows down and a favorite soulful song in the speakers sends you into orbit. Standing on a sidewalk on a blustery British day, just standing, with the wind whirling between your legs so that at any moment you are sure that takeoff is near, and then you close your eyes. Flight.
These moments are rare, and easily missed. Close your eyes. Imagine. Believe. And maybe, maybe wings will sprout, for a short time at least. Maybe we spend too much of our waking hours with our eyes open and our minds focused. I am seeking to find flight again – breathtaking, unprotected, fearless flight.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
A Dog's Life
Every now and then I look at my dogs and think, “Man, wouldn’t it be nice to be a dog?” I mean, to play and eat and sleep all day with no worries about the future or what you should do. Even if you do something wrong you’re too darn cute for anyone to be mad at you for too long.
Yes, maybe it’s silly to long for a dog’s life. What is their impact on the world? What is the extent of their emotions? Their experiences are in fact very limited. They have little options of what to do with their lives. They are at the absolute command of others – forced to entertain with monotonous tricks and being cute on demand. It’s not exactly enviable.
BUT, beyond that, if you belong to humans like my family, it really is a pretty good life. And we might even learn something from the way our pets live their lives. They pursue only the things that make them happy – food, a toy, or the most comfortable place to lie. They get excited by the most simple of joys. They forgive without thought; their loyalty is beyond compare. The sole purpose of their days is to love their people and to receive love in return, no questions asked.
Of these things, perhaps we could only try to achieve the last. Perhaps that would make our lives more meaningful.
Yes, maybe it’s silly to long for a dog’s life. What is their impact on the world? What is the extent of their emotions? Their experiences are in fact very limited. They have little options of what to do with their lives. They are at the absolute command of others – forced to entertain with monotonous tricks and being cute on demand. It’s not exactly enviable.
BUT, beyond that, if you belong to humans like my family, it really is a pretty good life. And we might even learn something from the way our pets live their lives. They pursue only the things that make them happy – food, a toy, or the most comfortable place to lie. They get excited by the most simple of joys. They forgive without thought; their loyalty is beyond compare. The sole purpose of their days is to love their people and to receive love in return, no questions asked.
Of these things, perhaps we could only try to achieve the last. Perhaps that would make our lives more meaningful.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
A few of my favorite things
Sex and the City, Season 4, Episode 1, first café scene. Everyone has favorite books and TV shows, movies and songs. I have favorite episodes, favorite scenes, favorite lines. I read the last sentence of any book before I begin it. I love particular glances shared between characters, the delivery of a line that induces a certain truth behind it, descriptions that emote. I have an obsession with moments that I’m pretty sure I’ve transferred into my real life. This is good, and bad.
I developed a love of everyday photography studying abroad in Britain, where every day was an exploration. Photography feeds my obsession; it allows me to stay in a moment long after it has passed. I’ve told people for years that I don’t like posed pictures, my favorites are the snapshots that capture personalities and emotions. Emotions that are fleeting.
“Carpe diem.” But what happens when that day, and the next, and the next are not to be seized. What happens when you have nothing left to do, nothing but wait. I’ve been told that I’m a free spirit, that I have nothing holding me back; I can do whatever I want. But in this moment, there is nothing to do. And for someone who is obsessed with moments, that’s like torture. I have to wait, be patient – aahh.
I get stuck in moments, and some linger longer than others. I string moments together to make up my existence. The experiences that are defining and memorable create a life. I cherish the moments that I encounter (they help to inspire my blogs), but it makes all the lapses between them dull and unbearable. I suppose patience is a good thing to learn. And resilience, if necessary, but I’m clinging to hope.
“This is your one opportunity to do something that no one has ever done before and that no one will copy throughout human existence. And if nothing else, you will be remembered as the one guy who ever did this. This one thing.” - Garden State
I developed a love of everyday photography studying abroad in Britain, where every day was an exploration. Photography feeds my obsession; it allows me to stay in a moment long after it has passed. I’ve told people for years that I don’t like posed pictures, my favorites are the snapshots that capture personalities and emotions. Emotions that are fleeting.
“Carpe diem.” But what happens when that day, and the next, and the next are not to be seized. What happens when you have nothing left to do, nothing but wait. I’ve been told that I’m a free spirit, that I have nothing holding me back; I can do whatever I want. But in this moment, there is nothing to do. And for someone who is obsessed with moments, that’s like torture. I have to wait, be patient – aahh.
I get stuck in moments, and some linger longer than others. I string moments together to make up my existence. The experiences that are defining and memorable create a life. I cherish the moments that I encounter (they help to inspire my blogs), but it makes all the lapses between them dull and unbearable. I suppose patience is a good thing to learn. And resilience, if necessary, but I’m clinging to hope.
“This is your one opportunity to do something that no one has ever done before and that no one will copy throughout human existence. And if nothing else, you will be remembered as the one guy who ever did this. This one thing.” - Garden State
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Nature
I am no nature buff, far from it. I know little about plants. I seldom camp (though I wish this wasn’t true); I probably couldn’t start a fire without a lighter and some accelerant. But I do appreciate nature; I sometimes crave the outdoors.
I want to hear the rustle of decomposing leaves uncompromised by concrete. I long to feel the mud slide underfoot, ever so threatening. To be lost in the woods, not in the “what am I going to eat, who’s going to eat me” kind of way, just to lose yourself in the sounds of the birds chirping without visibly seeing a living thing. The muddy river flanked by bare and dying trees is void of all beauty but for its movement – water flowing not from a fountain, but seemingly from nowhere, moving trees and land as it passes. This sandy bank I’m sure was brought by man to protect it, but still it’s nice to see, to feel the grit in your fingertips. The red dirt nearer the water seems to bleed from the earth.
The only signs of life are the footprints of rodents and deer mingled with birds’ nests and the wind. The only verdure apparent is the moss and the budding saplings, excepting the evergreens. The sunlight through the leave-less trees shines like an angel appearing in an old forgotten movie. The river rushes, the branches sway, the squish beneath, unhampered by anything. I sometimes crave the smell of nothing but dirt; no pine scented air freshener or vanilla aroma candle can compare.
I went for a long walk in the woods yesterday..I may have gotten a little carried away. I felt refreshed, until I stopped to get my computer and cell phone repaired on the way home.
Also, I would never dream of taking up running, think how much you would miss.
I want to hear the rustle of decomposing leaves uncompromised by concrete. I long to feel the mud slide underfoot, ever so threatening. To be lost in the woods, not in the “what am I going to eat, who’s going to eat me” kind of way, just to lose yourself in the sounds of the birds chirping without visibly seeing a living thing. The muddy river flanked by bare and dying trees is void of all beauty but for its movement – water flowing not from a fountain, but seemingly from nowhere, moving trees and land as it passes. This sandy bank I’m sure was brought by man to protect it, but still it’s nice to see, to feel the grit in your fingertips. The red dirt nearer the water seems to bleed from the earth.
The only signs of life are the footprints of rodents and deer mingled with birds’ nests and the wind. The only verdure apparent is the moss and the budding saplings, excepting the evergreens. The sunlight through the leave-less trees shines like an angel appearing in an old forgotten movie. The river rushes, the branches sway, the squish beneath, unhampered by anything. I sometimes crave the smell of nothing but dirt; no pine scented air freshener or vanilla aroma candle can compare.
I went for a long walk in the woods yesterday..I may have gotten a little carried away. I felt refreshed, until I stopped to get my computer and cell phone repaired on the way home.
Also, I would never dream of taking up running, think how much you would miss.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Tired
Every once in a while I leave the house without looking at myself in the mirror. At some point I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in something shiny. Have you ever looked at yourself and not recognized the person staring at you, not one bit? The eyes, once bright green, are faded with blue-black rims and covered with weighty spider webs that pull the lids down. The redness, too, from the lips is now a shady blush. The once sun-kissed cheeks and freckles now appear moon-slapped. And everything is deeper, more pronounced than I remember. This can’t be my face.
But I look again. What seems to have happened is that Tired has finally moved in. He’s visited before, usually just a stopover, after late nights or trauma. But this time he seems to have brought all his bags and is planning a long, if not, permanent stay. Tired lay his bags in the tight storage area under my eyes and has turned off the lights to conserve energy. The luggage is heavy, pulling the skin there further away from where it belongs.
Maybe it’s just leftover makeup that didn’t come off when I washed my face. But scrubbing doesn’t help, and it’s been two days since I wore mascara – two showers and washing my face should have rid that. No, it seems the darkness is tattooed under my lashes. Concealer helps. Smiling, though, seems to accentuate the baggage.
Maybe it’s part of growing up, this reinvention of your facial structure. Maybe there’s a reason adults learn to appreciate the bitterness of coffee; children don’t quite understand it yet, don’t need to taste the things they know, need the caffeine to keep them awake.
I suppose coffee, along with moisturizer and sleep, is the answer, but it seems that I should just wear makeup more often. Or maybe not recognizing yourself is ok. Maybe rediscovery can actually be invigorating. Maybe it’s invigorating enough to chase away Tired, show him he’s not welcome here for the moment.
But I look again. What seems to have happened is that Tired has finally moved in. He’s visited before, usually just a stopover, after late nights or trauma. But this time he seems to have brought all his bags and is planning a long, if not, permanent stay. Tired lay his bags in the tight storage area under my eyes and has turned off the lights to conserve energy. The luggage is heavy, pulling the skin there further away from where it belongs.
Maybe it’s just leftover makeup that didn’t come off when I washed my face. But scrubbing doesn’t help, and it’s been two days since I wore mascara – two showers and washing my face should have rid that. No, it seems the darkness is tattooed under my lashes. Concealer helps. Smiling, though, seems to accentuate the baggage.
Maybe it’s part of growing up, this reinvention of your facial structure. Maybe there’s a reason adults learn to appreciate the bitterness of coffee; children don’t quite understand it yet, don’t need to taste the things they know, need the caffeine to keep them awake.
I suppose coffee, along with moisturizer and sleep, is the answer, but it seems that I should just wear makeup more often. Or maybe not recognizing yourself is ok. Maybe rediscovery can actually be invigorating. Maybe it’s invigorating enough to chase away Tired, show him he’s not welcome here for the moment.
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