I’d really like to get that sleep, though. Please and thank you, whoever you are that has me awake.
You wouldn’t know it, though, based on the way I’ve been behaving of late.
In 1998, I was 20 years old. Back then, not only did I burn the candle at both ends, but I beat the candle up, trashed it like a rock star, and did it day after day without blinking. At that time, I balanced a full-time college schedule and two jobs, one of which I would head to after school and typically close for, not leaving until midnight or thereafter. After work was over, I’d head home and turn my attention to homework, sometimes staying up until 3 or 4 in the morning until everything was done. And that was just during the week. Ah, youth. (In case you’re counting, I’m presently a year older than this, and in about a month and a half, will be two years older. Let’s discuss that later, shall we?)
Apparently, though, I’ve been trying to relive the rock star days of yore lately, staying up until the wee hours of the morning and having the audacity to believe that I will 1) wake up on time the next day; 2) stay awake on the metro and totally not fall asleep and miss my stop in the process; 3) get to work on time, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready for the day to come; and 4) remain energetic throughout the day, hardly wishing I could sob from fatigue and sleep all at the same time. The audacity, really. So, what’s the reason, you wonder? After all, those college/concert/party days are waaay over.
Wait for it…wait for it…
1. I’m a night owl.
2. The Golden Girls comes on at midnight and ends around 2am.
Feel free to commence with “you brought it on yo’self.”
I’m sleepy. Onwards.
Some people call said torture chamber a “fitting room,” but I’d like to think that Merriam-Webster will soon come to the light and make the appropriate changes to their lexicon.
Because it is torture chamber, my friends. What else do you call a tiny room where every nook, cranny, and crevice is filled with the kind of unremitting fluoroscent lighting that showcases every inch of your now monstrous body, which seemed to morph into Jabba the Hutt territory during your journey from the clothes rack to the “fitting room”? What else do you call a room where none of the locks ever work, thereby increasing the potential that while you’re bent over trying to pull those jeans up your monstrous body, a mother and her child will walk by and see the horror of it all? What do you call a place where the person who inhabited it before you seemed to believe they were 90s-era Johnny Depp and therefore had the right to trash the place like a hotel room?
Say it with me, yes, yes: torture chamber.
Needless to say, I mostly avoid trying on clothes when I buy them. What? It’s true. To keep from bringing everything back because of fit or color or whatever, I just
take forever in the store shop very judiciously. Which means I usually buy a size up. Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. The typical result with buying a size up is that I end up looking like a low-rent gypsy trying to be Stevie Nicks. So the point of this whole diatribe: despite the fact that going to the torture chamber is pretty much walking towards your own doom, I’ve decided to–gulp–try clothes on before I leave the store. Why?
1. It makes sense.
2. The buying and returning game has gotten fairly old, believe it or not.
So, yeah, I’ve been frequenting the torture chamber. It’s not half bad. Well, not really, but let’s not rehash the horrors, shall we? And to prove that I’ve been changing my ways lately (I’m not all talk, you know), here you go:
Jim Croce’s narrator’s girlfriend is cheating on him, and he sings his pain to a nameless telephone operator. You’re welcome.
Carole King on tap today. For me, this song pretty much causes a great deal of weeping while professing–with fists raised, no less–that this woman is one of the best singer/songwriters of all time. If you’re wondering, my blue is a bit less blue, due to the visit last night from a close, treasured friend. She certainly sweetly interrupted my plans to lay on the couch and watch NCIS.
I’m curious: what are your tried and true sad songs?
I’m down, you guys. Just a lot going on this little life of mine. Sigh.
What do you do when you’re blue? I play songs by my boyfriend and other sad song singers, all of which break my heart over and over again, because that’s how I medicate during times like these. I wallow. I cry. I lay placidly on the sofa and watch cheesy television. That’s how it, the blue, comes out. And so, because I’m a sharer, this week of posts (yes, I plan on posting every day this week, because it’s not fair that I only did that for the sake of poetry, right?) will bring you clips of said sad songs. Nice to meet you, company–the name’s Misery. That’s the kind of gal I am.
First up, a little ditty by my boyfriend, one that quickly turns my eyes red. Oh, and guess what? Additional vocals are by Joni Mitchell, the Empress of Sad Songs. Enjoy. And sorry.
It’s been a while, yes. I have no excuses, no. I’m going through that weird, are-we-still-in-winter lack of motivation, where I do nothing of the following: write, think, work out. Instead, I do all of the following: wallow, frown, eat. BUT, I’ve been eating quite well lately. Staying largely away from pastries and bagels (since I’m of the belief that I would shove an old lady out of the way for a blueberry bagel, this is pretty significant); balancing protein, fats, and carbs, whatever all of that means; choosing cereal for dinner from time to time. These are all good things, so I suppose I haven’t turned too much into a mid-winter lump. Don’t get me wrong, though: we have entered Lump Phase 1,000, for sure. More so emotional/metaphysical/mental/ lumpification. Anyway. A few other things I’ve been up to:
Apartment hunting. In Paris.
Falling for this guy. (See The Artist as soon as you can.) He’s French, by the way, to keep with the theme.
That’s about it, folks. Oh, wait: I’ve also been eating the following quite obsessively:
You were expecting French fries, weren’t you? To keep with the theme?