Tag Archives: random thoughts

The February of it All.

STOP MOCKING ME, calendar.

I hate February. I hate that it’s (usually) cold. I hate that it’s dark. I hate that no one can pronounce it correctly and that I feel like a freak when I do (it’s FebRUary, not FebUary, OK, bitches?)

Mostly, I hate the sense of utter despair that the month usually signifies. (I also hate that I dropped the “H” word like eleventy-billion times in this first paragraph. As a proponent of social justice and mom who constantly says, “That’s a strong word,” I need to check myself.)

Seriously though, FebRUary is cruel bitch. She tests your limits, and most of us don’t even have a number 2 pencil.

At this point in the year, we should be well on our way to being the change we saw at the bottom of our flute of Taittinger on 12/31. Our bad habits are bad memories, and our fitter, stronger, happier, more productive (robotic-sounding) selves are…fitter, stronger, happ…you get the point.

Damn you, italics and your emPHAsis of doom.

Yes, if we’ve all stuck to our resolutions up to this point, we should be over the 30-day hump and enjoying the fruits of our labor. Actions that seemed almost impossible only a month ago should be becoming second nature. Life is indeed going our way, and the best part about it…it’s ONLY FebRUary.

Wait. Only FebRUary!?! You mean I have to keep this ish up for the next 10 months!?!

Fuck me running…I’m tired of running!

Burnout.

Burning out is very possible in the month of FebRUary. See, everything was new in January. It was a challenge to be met, an adventure to behold. It was exciting and you were determined to NOT be one of those pathetic people who gave up on their resolution 2 weeks into the New Year.

When FebRUary first rolled around, you felt accomplished, maybe a little self-satisfied. YOU went to the gym almost every morning and saw people slowly start to drop off. YOU haven’t had one cigarette, even after you lost your job/significant other/home/best friend/cat. YOU haven’t had any sugar. YOU have been getting at least 8 hours of sleep a night. YOU have refrained from killing since the end of last year.

Get over yourself.

YOU are golden. You so got this.

Until you realize that you don’t.

January was the honeymoon…FebRUary is the marriage. The long, day-to-day, monotonous, Nathan Lane crooning “Is That All There Is” in his most nasally, Jewiest of voices, “RESTOFYOURLIFE” kind of marriage.

It’s the recognition of that awesome thing you’ve been doing, well it’s still kind of cool, but you have to keep doing it…all the time.

In FebRUary, shit gets real. Most people won’t survive. They won’t completely give up, though. No, it will be a slow death throughout the short month.

Excuses will be made.

Poor decisions will become more regular.

Soon old habits will rear their ugly head, and the progress of January will fade faster than Nathan Lane’s appeal as a performer (it’s all I got right now).

Yup...that's all there is.

It doesn’t have to be like this. Like any marriage, the trick is to keep it fresh.

Bring a friend into the picture (wait, what?) You know…to workout with.

Change up your routine. Try something new.

Above all, recognize that perfect is an absolute that only airbrushing and anorexia can attain. Mistakes will happen, but they don’t have to be the death of your success.

Like most marital missteps, they can leave you feeling stronger, more connected, and back on the road to blissville.  (Pause to wipe the vomit from my keyboard.)

So as this short month rages on, don’t let the daunting prospect of having to keep your new life switches turned on indefinitely let you down. Continue to take things one day at a time (ba, ba, da, da) and it will be March before you know it, Ann Romano.

You have NO IDEA who this is, do you?

Long. Cold. March.

Meanwhile, how am I doing with my life switches? Ha. That’ll be the topic for my next post, “WHY THE FUCK DID I THINK IT WAS A GOOD IDEA TO CHRONICLE A YEARS WORTH OF RESOLUTIONS ON THE WORLD WIDE FUCKING WEB, and other assorted tales.”

Stay tuned. If anything, it’s guaranteed to make you feel good about your own pathetic existence!

You’re welcome.

 

 

 

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Fuck you, Meredith Gray

I know that I promised a recap of the start of my first life switch, but I lied. Hey, at least I’m still alive!

Instead of not posting anything, or offering some sort of space filler like a picture of kittens spooning, I have decided to give you a glimpse into my insanity. Week two starts tomorrow, so I expect the promised update by tomorrow night.

In the mean time, enjoy my crazy.

A big part of why I am so gung-ho about fully adopting a “fitter, happier, more productive” me is in the vain attempt that maybe, just maybe I’ll stop being a lunatic.

Exhibit A: http://www.collaborativenation.com/melissa-kleckner/51-from-augury-to-agita-divine-hypochondriasis-and-how-i-learned-to-embrace-my-crazy.html

The above link is a blog entry I wrote at a time when I was healthier about a time that I was MUCH healthier, and yet the impetus for me to write the piece came from these mini attacks I was having where I was sure I was dying. These mini attacks reminded me of some borderline psychosis I had experienced, oh, for the better part of my life.

Again, that was a “healthier” Melissa. So you can only imagine the thoughts that go through my mind now that I am in a perpetual state of feeling like a bag of old garbage that’s been left out in the rain.

I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I go through these spurts where I am far too preoccupied with death. I hyper-analyze every micro-ailment in my body and FREAK when Dr. Google immediately points to one form or another of the Big C (Laura Linney sold separately.)

Thus far, I have not made any long-term changes that could perhaps prevent (or at the very least, hold off) a dire diagnosis, because that would make sense.

No, instead I play through the telenovela scenarios of being branded with disease. The fall out of my diagnosis, and the all too “Lifetime: Television for Women” for my liking dénouement postmortem, complete with second wives and step moms.

If it’s not my own demise I am surfing for, the very heartbreaking prospects of losing one of my dear loved ones dances onto my minds proscenium arch. Though I just recently came to the conclusion that I’ve ultimately become anesthetized to death, and would probably be able to handle the demise of most people in my life with grace and humility, there are still a handful of people whose deaths would no doubt send me to some sort of tragic kingdom (long slow groan.)

Such a schizophrenic relationship with the end of life does not lend itself well to watching dramas or “very special episodes of…” For example, when a bipolar of bereaving bitch such as myself watches a show like Gray’s Anatomy, it’s not just mindless entertainment wrapped up in Emmy Award-winning schlock.

It’s a catalyst to crazy town.

When a lead character loses her husband, J is immediately in a pine box. Watch a child witness the death of her young parent, that’s my Avie observing my declining sinus rhythm.

All scenarios of heartache and loss become near inevitabilities in my life. It’s madness.

Don’t get me wrong; I know that life can change in the blink of an eye. An accident, an unexpected illness, the sudden arousal of a sleeping giant; at any moment in our lives, our lives can be over in a moment. It’s just the reality that comes with this whole being “mortal” territory, and it sucks.

Not that immortality is necessarily the answer. Save the undead fantasies for the Edward and Bella crowd (those poor, pathetic souls.) It’s just personally I’d like to get through an episode of Modern Family without the internal production of hearing that I have 6 months to live or that I lost my husband and child in a fiery auto wreck (you must have missed that episode.)

Recognizing what is entertainment and what is a normal pain or body ache could very well be the key to a long, happy, stress-free life, without the need to avoid sun exposure or drink blood.

I think it’s time that I start worrying about the fact that I watch Gray’s Anatomy to begin with and ease up on the idea that it is primetime’s answer to a soothsayer attempting to warn me of some dreadful date in the not-so-distant future.

Death comes to us all, eventually, Mary Agnes, but it won’t come in the form of one of Meredith’s melancholy monologues of misery.

Or will it?

 

 

 

Oh…and here’s a picture of kittens spooning.