Expectation Management

This is the third time I have attempted to write this blog post and I don’t know where to start.

*insert sounds of frustration, here*

I’m tired.

I tend to be either goal oriented or completely ambivalent when it comes to dealing with people. If I’m goal oriented, chances are I find this person worthwhile and the kind of human I want in my world. If I’m ambivalent?-chances are I think of you like kale chips. Interesting conceptually, but not necessary.

So. I was goal oriented with New Guy. I knew in broad strokes what I wanted and where it was going. Cool. 

And then shit didn’t add up. Why was I uncertain? Why do words and actions not tally up? Wait. Pull back. Let’s independently assess this.

I’ve come to this ugly conclusion that I am more invested in this than New Guy. New Guy appears, despite his words to the contrary, to want to take things slow – so slow that where I thought being in love meant we were somewhere in the same chapter,it seems he is stuck on the cover page.

He wants to be friends with benefits and not something more structured.

So! I retract my earlier status. I am not in a relationship. I just spend time with someone I want to spend more time bedding.

We’re moving from goal to kale chips real fast.

Cock-a-doodle quack

The person who lives behind me rears chicken. Initially, I thought they were wild chickens, forging out a new undomesticated life for themselves in the walkway behind the house.

Due to the sudden swell in crowing voices, I am more inclined to believe in human intervention.

My whole life, I have accepted that chickens make noises akin to what the TV has taught me.

The TV lies.

The chickens sound like they’re losing their voices crowing as they do. As their voices go horse  (get it? Get it?) from the wretched cries to the predawn light, I wonder if these birds have some sort of OCD that compels them to cry out to the sun, because that shit does not sound comfortable.

Be Happy

I got into a relationship the other day. I haven’t done one of these in a few years. I’m realising why.

Those few who know are ridiculously “happy” for me.”oh, I’m so glad! Your deserve to be happy!” Oh fuck off. It’s more the assurance that I’ve found someone and I’m no longer an inexplicable anomaly, coupled with the idea that sharing my life will somehow give me the veneer of happiness and completion. -someone get me a whiskey.

I am built to be a side chick. After taking care of my mother, work and keeping my head above water, I don’t have enough left to be a primary. Jesus, so early in the game and the comments are made that I can’t spend more time because I have to deal with my mother.

My reality is no one I am with will be able to come before my mother and work. And do not even give me that half assery about how the right guy will understand my circumstances and put up with me. Understanding, tolerating and accepting something are three very different concepts. I’m good when I know I’m expected at certain times, for a certain purpose and the rest is fluff. Not this “I just want to spend time with you,” crap.

Fucking hell, you’d think I’d have learnt my lesson by now.

Til Death do us Part

I’ve just come back from a requiem mass for a family friend who passed away last week.

I am disgruntled and off centre as a result.

I have always thought a funeral was meant to be equal parts commemorating the person who was, and coming together to commend the soul of the departed to whatever greater power they believed in. In so doing, everyone provides a sense of consolation and bittersweet remembrance.

I am in the minority it seems.

Speeches were given about how to give speeches. Speeches were given about the importance of funeral plans. Speeches were given commemorating the important people who came to attend. Too many speeches were given about the last week of the departed’s life, and not about the legacy and life lived.

After the funeral, too many conversations were had about how to save money (buy a cheap casket, said in front of the deceased’s family) the hardship of finding a quality deal on memorial flyers. The importance of investing in funeral cover.

God help us, who die here! 

I suppose the only consolation is I wouldn’t attend my own funeral.

For You

At work, we were discussing how much of ourselves we put into work in terms of time, energy, our personalities and character. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that.

But what do you do, for  you ?

If you were to die today, and have all these regrets of,”I wish I had done this/that” and whatever angel/reaper comes to claim you replies with; “But, you had all those years on earth to do stuff for yourself – what did you do?” How would you respond?

Practically, we can’t all fly off to Italy and walk through cobblestoned walkways. But we could learn about Italian cuisine. We could make a friend in Italy.

We can still enrich our souls and be more than just a job and a Friday night out.

Highlighter and Food

Being happy and hopeful makes me anxious. Experience has taught me that what goes up must come down. And coming down is rarely pleasant. I find being in a mild state of depression generally comfortable. I am listless but I get things done and nothing shakes my centre too much.

As you can imagine, this anxiety makes it difficult to enjoy the brief moments of sunshine.

Where, in the grand scheme, I am going through a hopeful phase, I am trying not to dwell on it overly much. I hope to thwart the Fates for a little longer and sit in the happy space a while longer.

Instead, I am focussing on highlighter. Magic, shiny face powder to dust along the tops of my cheekbones. It looks pretty. Lord Almighty, am I not obsessing over this stuff. And now that I want a certain highlighter, the drugstore doesn’t have it. Cue obsession.

Shiny cheekbones! Metallic soft shimmers. Ooh, green shoes – I think in a former incarnation, I was a magpie.

Also, I need to eat better. It isn’t that I like eating junk food – despite my regular claims to the contrary. Rather, I think I’m afraid of failing. Not failing at eating properly, I can do that. I’m more concerned that I’m building myself up to come crashing down.

Ah good, anxiety is back to keep me company. Well, that’s comforting at least.

Crisis of Faith

It’s been about 6months since I started boxing. 

The physical fatigue aside, which doesn’t really bother me anymore, I am facing a crisis of sorts. Yes, it hurts. Yes, I ache a lot, but I know I am capable of pushing harder – there’s a part of me that chooses not to. And therein lies the issue.

I have found that boxing is bringing a lot of demons to the fore. Most of the time its fine, but every so often it scares me, because I realise that the things that trigger me are a lot closer to the surface than I realised and the mental walls I have up, are not as strong as they need to be. It’s scary as all hell that a physical activity, that is inherently violent can make me lose control.

Why am I boxing? I don’t box to be fit, I box to fight. At my core, I’m training to hurt and be hurt. But still, why do I want to know how to fight?  It isn’t some desire to defend myself or other abstract noble ideal, but I don’t really know yet.

Do I honestly think I could be any good at it?  This is tricky. Being completely honest, and ego aside, I am dangerous potential. On the one hand, I’m fast, there’s a degree of natural talent, I’m stubborn and angry enough to take on the challenge of training (boxing is easy, training is the bitch) and succeed, and more likely than not, I have a fighter’s brain – I have a predatory desire to inflict pain, and receive it from a worthy opponent. There is glory in battle.

On the other hand, I have crippling insecurities, the kind that leave me like a deer in the headlights. I, inherently, don’t think I’m good enough. Inherently, I believe I deserve to be hit – I have subconsciously ingrained it that I should not slip, bob and weave or avoid the strike. Honestly, I will give you every chance to hit me, but know that once the switch is flipped, I am going for blood and you had better knock me out first.

And finally – what if all the good stuff up there, the mental desire to do battle, the fire and rage; what if its all hollow bravado? What if that mettle isn’t actually there?

The physical aspect of boxing is nothing more than the consequence of mental reserve.

It is my will power and my mind that determines whether or not I will ever consider myself a boxer or a fighter.

Frankly, I don’t know.