running for your life

i originally planned to entitle today's post "running for my life," but as i began typing, i realized that is a fallacy. i am not, in fact, running for my life because, despite intense treatment through behavior modification, pharmaceuticals, therapy, journaling, yoga, massage therapy, etc., i am going to continue to operate at this obnoxious level of stress that will eventually kill me. therefore, i run so that it does not negatively impact your life, or someone you love's. hence..."running for your life." and, it's working. there were several people i did not kill today, in fact.

the day started out like every other day with my telling frida, "five more minutes; go lie down." after the normal getting-ready-for-work routine, i slipped into the wool, Banana Republic pants i bought on sale on saturday for $15 that i didn't even have to have shortened and my also-on-sale lavender sweater. then i donned my thrift-store-rabbit-fur-coat to complete the ensemble and walked out the door feeling deliciously, affordably rich. i also felt embraced by the universe. my power sign is the wolf, and i was wearing the rabbit, who would ensure that my basic needs were met and i suffered nothing. in theory.

the doors to my work car were frozen shut. all of them. and, the car was parked over a puddle that was now a sheet of ice making it impossible for me to get enough traction to kick the shit out of the doors. so i gave up. and drove my personal car. i felt i had slipped something past the gods that be. why do people say that? "the gods that be." the gods that be what? f-ing with me? how is that fair? i don't even BELIEVE in that god. anyway, he did not know i had a personal car. but he does now.

the morning passed fairly quickly without incident until i stepped onto the treadmill, ready to begin my maiden run. i have actually been running every other day for at least a week, but today was the real beginning, because i calibrated my Nike + iPod. the receiver could not "find" the sensor. so after taking my shoe off, resetting the sensor, and putting my shoe back on several times, and after having run several miles and working up a decent sweat. it worked. now, fortunately, i had to walk and then run several more miles to calibrate it. i was pissed. but i had prevailed.

late in the afternoon, i decided to go pick up my new commemorative item now that i had obtained the necessary documents. after driving less than 20 miles in one and one-half hours and inadvertently missing two toll booths, i arrived at the door of a run-down, ABANDONED storefront with a sign on the door that read, "we have moved to a new location!" exciting. you stupid... anyway. luckily, i was still in my personal car, where i have a garmin. upon my arrival, i was told by the obligatory female at the establishment that she wished i had called before driving out there because there was a mandatory waiting period. "oh, for shit's sake," i said. "you have GOT to be kidding me." she did not appear to be sufficiently intimidated by my five-ish foot frame wearing high heels and a rabbit fur coat, but i did refrain from making a scene, but only because i do not have a choice. a solitary utterance of profanity (i consider "shit" to be relatively benign, especially since i did not use it as a noun) would have earned me a meeting first thing tomorrow morning with my boss' boss' boss. that would have sucked. so, i filled out the paperwork, wished everyone a Merry Christmas, and went on my very unhappy way.

after another hour and one-half drive home, i had to wait to pull into my parking lot because some jackass is so proud of his having a penis that he must back his car into the parking space, even in a gated lot. i finally parked, managed to get inside without falling down on the icy lot, and discovered that frida had eaten the end of my rug. my rug that makes me happy. my rug that i just put on the kitchen floor this very weekend.

so again, running for your life.

here's a picture of a christmas present i made for frida this weekend. i am thinking about taking it back since she ate my rug. omg. i cannot believe i just said "she ate my rug." whatever.

after realizing that frida needed a diversion, i decided to let her play with peter, the gay, pink, squeaky rabbit. here's peter after about 30 seconds... those are his brains on her christmas present rug, which is not even hers yet!

why justthissideofmadness...

so now i'm cheating off my sister in titling this particular post (see goshohemlock.typepad.com), but it does seem relevant, even necessary, to begin by explaining the title of my blog. can you believe i have a blog? that's like actually taking a step forward, putting me dangerously close to an especially daunting precipice where i might have to work toward accomplishing one of my goals. but anyway, while working on my current (and might i add "first") book, while digging through my three rubbermaid containers that house (originally i wrote "contain" but thought that word sucked given the noun) everything of any value i've produced in life, i came across one of my previous attempts to write a book. because of its length, this one may have kept me captive for more than one night of epiphanous-analytical-cathartic-exhaustive writing, but the important thing is, its discovery prompted me to create and name this blog. and here we are. and here it is:

foreward:

i remember being told countless times as a child that if i were ever to get lost, i should stay right where i was and wait for someone to come find me. as i look back, trying desperately to remember a time that i actually was lost as a child, i am fascinated by the irony that now seems so apparent. first, i don't believe that i ever realized i was "lost" until i had been "found," and it was only then that i was overwhelmed by fear. second, was it really me who was lost, or was it whomever was responsible for me at that particular time? i may be putting way too much thought into this, which would not be unusual for me, but it seems to me that at that point in my life, i was not, in fact, lost--they had simply lost the ability to find me.

so, for the past several years (if not my entire adult life), more lost than i have ever been, i have been doing just that. waiting to be found. but by whom, or what? another lost individual who is no more equipped than i to navigate the labyrinth of the reality of a life with more questions than answers and more irony than justice? the hard conclusion that no matter how it should be, it isn't, and that the more i struggle against the binds of mediocrity and resignation the less likely my escape?

with nothing to do but wait, i will write about my experiences while lost. maybe then, assuming i am ever found, i will have an accurate description of the demons who seduced me into following them into these bleak recesses.

chapter 1:

why do i find it so difficult to put my thoughts, feelings, and fears on paper? is it because i am truly a subconscious masochist worried that by performing this exercise i run the risk of working things out and, therefore, bringing an end to my suffering? or is it for fear that recording them will somehow seal my fate to a life of agonizing over analysis and critical discontent? either way, if i cannot overcome my compulsion to repress, i make myself a prisoner, confined to a cell of my own making, at the mercy of an unforgivable authority--myself.

i suppose it must be true that we are our own worst enemies. maybe if i just continue to write about why it is i may not be able to do so, i can trick my psyche into believing that it is involved in another harmless activity that will never come to fruition. i wonder. even as my hand struggles furiously to keep pen to paper - a willing scribe - writing, writing, writing thoughts as they come, words as they disrobe, my mind - oh, and it is a strong one - demands that its authority be restored. who will triumph remains to be seen - heart? head? need...fear?

each day, thousands of ideas emerge triumphantly at the surface, gasping for air and grasping for anything that will keep them afloat, but inevitably they are forced back into the recesses of my mind, swallowed by the tides of indifference.

somewhere between denial and irony, i realize how easy it would be to slip from the ordinary side of madness into multiple personality disorder or some other yet unclassified state of severe psychological affliction that seems complex in origin yet may be as simple as the mind's inability to continue to distinguish between the extreme contradictions that exist within every individual.

wow! doesn't that sound promising and uplifting?