All day, up and down. Absurdly so. It’s windy and each gust changes my perspective. These days I’m terrific and then I’m so ridiculously, despondently unterrific. I ask you.
Like this:
I wake up to construction: Misery.
But it’s early enough that I can take a shower and still be to The Glamourous Freelance Job on time: Jubilation.
I eat a banana and drink coffee with Splenda not Sweet ‘n’ Low because I have finally faced facts: my beloved S&L is indeed Chernobyl in a tiny pink envelope, as well as a “slow exit” food, and is quite possibly the nastiest packet of grossitude on the planet that’s been killing me softly for decades: Enlightened.
I manage to dry my new haircut into a feathered helmet when I was going for Mary Tyler Moore: Despair.
It’s freezing out. Like really, really not at all summer: Bereft.
I stop at the newsstand and buy a New York Post, where there’s a three-page feature that not only mentions me and my book, but has a picture of the book: Elation.
The article has me quoted as saying Kristin Davis is “very hippy,” which I swear I never said, or at least I never meant to say, because come on: Self-loathing.
The Glamourous Freelance Job turns out to be vaguely Unglamourous: Mildly dysthymic.
I eat lunch of salad with dressing I made myself and name of dressing is “Liquid Gold”: Comforted.
Liquid Gold turns out to be not nearly as tasty as name: Disappointed.
Day drags on, ratio of number of social emails received (tiny) to desire to communicate with outside world (massive) becomes clear: Nausea.
I get an email asking me to contribute a piece to a magazine I admire: Delight, Quickly Followed By Terror at Actually Having to Write Article.
It gets dark: Depressed.
I buy new mascara in attempt to lift spirits with trip to Sephora: Emptiness.
I attempt while in line at Sephora to hold my place in line while simulateneously reeeeeeaching for every coconut-scented Philosophy product in effort to find something frivolous worthy of an impulse buy and nearly fall over/lose my place on line: Humiliation.
Every product I pick up is a bubble bath. I am reminded that my bathtub is so small Webster could not bathe in it: Webster!
On my way out of Sephora, I douse myself in Thierry Mugler “Angel” perfume: Millisecond of Joy.
On subway, people sniff and move away from me, presumably because I am giving them a headache from my Angel dousing: Abandonment.
I give myself a headache from Angel dousing: Oh fuck it.
I see two people on the train reading the article I’m in in The Post: Secret Thrill.
Et cetera. You see. I suppose this is a normal day. This is the sort of soaring/plummeting that normal people experience. It’s also kind of boring when recounted. I would like to be less susceptible to the tiny ripples of the universe, changing instead with the larger tides. Or maybe actually affecting the tides. I’d like to be the moon.
This entry was posted
on Tuesday, January 23rd, 2007 at 12:15 am and is filed under health & body image, personal.
You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.
January 23rd, 2007 at 11:43 am
A friend of mine pretends this is a game show called “Name that Emotion!”
It wasn’t at all boring — it was FUNNY! You’re funny!
Miss Manners once said something like, why go to therapy when you can use your neuroses to entertain others at the dinner table? Your blog today was funny because it speaks to us all and we can all relate! At least those who will admit to it…
March 9th, 2007 at 1:25 pm
[...] I was drying off from my bath (How amazing are bathtubs? I love hotels because they have cable TV and bathtubs. My sad bathroom in New York is looking like the schoolyard runt of dwellings with its itty-bitty Webster-sized tub) and I heard the TV on in the other room. [...]
August 29th, 2007 at 5:40 pm
[...] I would like to be the person who couldn’t hurt a fly. I would like to never harm a living thing. I don’t think any living thing should suffer, I don’t think hunting for sport is a good idea or even really acceptable. But if a bug or rodent enters my living space, watch out—I’m a killer. In the same way that I unapologetically use Sweet ‘N’ Low even though I know it’s bad for me and Splenda is at least made from real sugar (it’s sweeter than sugar, it dissolves in iced coffee, I like it—okay, maybe I apologize a little)[Note to Self: Come up with new vice for which I am unapologetic. Other Note to Self: Other uses for Splenda], I am a ruthless exterminator. Why? Because I’m scared. Things crawling on me or near me, crapping in the cereal, infesting the cupboard—this terrifies me so deeply that I’ll go to any lengths necessary to rid my life of these invaders. If there is a spider in my apartment, I do not carefully slip a piece of shirt cardboard under its creepy crawly legs and gently release it into the wild. I squash it. I don’t feel bad afterwards—I feel relieved. [...]