Twilight Terror/Between Dog & Wolf

 I am afraid of the not-dark.

I have long struggled with anxiety around a certain time of day.  It took me many years to even realize it was happening, that there was a sort of pattern; I just thought I didn't like running errands in the late afternoon.

Which brings up another reason why it was hard to pin down:  it's not just the late afternoon.  It's not a time period as in "4 to 6 p.m.," but it's close.  Maybe it's better if I try to describe it by season.

In the winter:  it is late afternoonish, but the sun is still out.  In fact, it glints off the snow in such a way that the reflections seems to hit you directly in the third eye, causing an instant (stabbing) headache.  It's freezing outside, so you're wearing your winter gear, but you are also too hot:  sweating and stuffy inside your layers, both too cold and too hot.  The sun in too bright; the snow is too bright.  And no matter which direction you're headed in traffic, it's always rush hour, and it all hits you directly in the face.

In the summer and fall:  the sun is orange and of course it's hot.  You're stuck in your car for hours, but it never seems to cool off, despite the A/C.  This is the one that really gets me; I can't explain the terror, the throat-closing, dry-mouth-swallowing that accompanies the orange sky.

And you're probably saying to yourself, "That doesn't seem like anxiety.  That sounds like headaches and road rage and your body trying to regulate its temperature."  And you're not wrong.  These are all physical manifestations associated with my twilight terror.

But it's not just when I'm out and about between 2 and 4 or 4 and 6 (depending on the season).

I could be home in my climate-controlled penthouse, and I can still feel the anxiety crawl up my throat like bile.  I will close the curtains to get rid of those headache-inducing slants of sunlight, no matter the season, no matter if they're white or orange.

I will wander aimlessly across the three or four rooms, unsure of what to do with myself.  It doesn't feel "safe" (whatever that means) to sit for too long or to try to start (or work on) a project.  I can't focus; I won't let myself focus lest I stop paying attention to everything else.

For a while (several years or months), I thought I figured it out:  I usually had to be at rehearsal in the evening.  So those few hours in between work and other work (the theatre) were all I had to transition between.  Time for driving, changing clothes, eating food, saying hi and bye to the spouse, then leaving again.

Right?  That must be it.

And even though I like rehearsal (90% of the time; the experiences that make up the 10% are stories for another book), it is still hard to extract myself from home and leave out into the world again.  But it makes sense that I would feel unsettled; can't fully relax when you have to get up and go again.  Can't immerse yourself in another activity lest you lose track of time and end up late (my anxiety over being late is another entry entirely).

Except.

Except...it happens when there is no rehearsal.  It happens when there is absolutely nothing on the calendar (like during a pandemic).  I have to remind myself to breathe.  I have to literally tell myself that's there's nowhere I have to be.  But I still can't settle.  I am still nervous inside my own skin.

And I'm pretty sure I've always disliked this time of day/late afternoon/early evening, long before the days of rehearsals or dinners or evening plans.  Even as far back as 7 p.m. bedtimes and blankies and footie pajamas.

So the other day I watched In & Of Itself on Hulu.  I do recommend watching it; although, I don't want to overhype it (like I feel was done to me).  Many people say it's "indescribable."  I think it's more accurate to say it's difficult to categorize.  If there's a place where theatre, illusion, performance art, and therapy all intersect, In & Of Itself lives there.

The following is NOT a spoiler.

During his one-man show, Derek DelGaudio says there is a certain time of day, when the sun is at a certain point in the horizon, that used to be called "the time between dog and wolf."  The phrase means, because of the direction of the sun, you can't tell the difference between a dog and a wolf (or a friend and an enemy).  And that struck a deep chord within me.  The "golden hour" as DelGaudio said photographers call it (although it's about two hours) sounded exactly like my twilight terror.

And I then wondered that perhaps "my" anxiety isn't "me" at all.  Maybe there's not some triggering event in my past (that I've conveniently forgotten) to explain my daily dread.

Maybe, just maybe, it's something deeper, more primal, than that.  The recognition I felt listening to DelGaudio describe the time between dog and wolf certainly felt primal, almost visceral.  Maybe it's some kind of genetic memory related to the time between dog and wolf.  Some remaining piece of collective memory passed down that says, "This time is dangerous; be careful.  Be on your guard."  Some small piece of genetic material that doesn't know it's the 21st century and is still trying to propel my body to safety by telling my brain to be on high alert until the sunlight changes.

And that's a fascinating idea.  Not only is it fascinating, but it takes the burden off of me.  It isn't "my" anxiety because it's not anxiety at all but a relic of human beings long ago.  It was normal and meant to keep them safe.  Mine is just working overtime by a couple of centuries. Or a few millennia.

Adventures in Dating (Apps)

In my therapy session earlier this week, my therapist suggested downloading a dating app as a means to distract myself/get over my recent heartbreak.  She also mentioned that these apps could be good for ego boosts.  My response was, "I don't think my ego is really the problem right now."  And it's really not.

When she and I started talking about possible future relationships, I drew a blank.  All I could think was that my current circle of friends is made up of people who either have partners or are not people I'm interested in dating, often both.  Because they're my friends, not potential romantic partners. My therapist said, "Then it's time to widen your circle."

She then suggested I look at some of the dating apps out there.  She said, "Tinder," and I think physically reacted negatively.  She also mentioned Bumble as being more women-friendly, and I thought, Yeah, I remember hearing about that.

I told her the thought of a dating app terrified me.  But I couldn't quite nail down or express why, but my feeling was very visceral.

The last time I tried meeting people online was pre-text message era!  We're talking like "Yahoo personals" or something.  And then some years later, maybe Match.com?  But even then, it was the same five lesbians on every site; I'm pretty sure I had coffee with all of them.

So after therapy, I downloaded Bumble (for free) on my phone.  And then I didn't touch it for 24 hours.  I mean, I didn't even open the app.

Then, when I did open the app, it said, "Connect with Facebook," and I immediately closed it again.

Then, because I'm a nerd, I did some research.  I found a nice "how to" article from Business Insider of all places.  By the next time I dared open the app again, I felt a tad better and a bit more informed.  And I read the fine print beneath the "Connect with Facebook" promising me that the app doesn't post to Facebook ever.  And even then, I made several changes to the access the app had to my Facebook profile for  my own peace of mind.

I went about "setting up" my profile; however, there's very little to actually "set up," especially if you just import six pictures (the max allowed) from your Facebook profile.  I was surprised (and therefore scared) at how fast it was.  No surveys to fill out, no questionnaires about my hobbies and what kind of cheese I like to eat.  I had to condense myself into a brief bio -- not too hard to do for an actor as I have to write them all the time for show programs.

And then I found a button to make my profile "private," and I hit that little fucker so fast!  "Private" on Bumble (apparently) means that no one can see your stuff, and I breathed a sigh of relief at the sudden reprieve and a chance to tweak my profile/bio a bit.

And during all of the above, I had butterflies in my stomach -- and not the excited, happy kind.  This was trepidation, not anticipation.  But all I could reason was that it's all so new (and new is scary, change is bad, etc. etc.).  So I gingerly waded back into the fray.

And then I hit my next conundrum:  there is no way to "skip" a profile.  You must decide, then and there, if you want to swipe right (good) or swipe left (bad) before you can see any other profiles.  And I have yet to figure out or see how the order of profiles is chosen¹.

So of course I started to freak out a bit.  What if I changed my mind?  What if I miss somebody good?  What if I want to compare to the next profile?

And then the crux of it:  I did not want to swipe ripe.  I was terrified to do so.

And it wasn't until a few minutes later in the bathroom (of all places), sitting on the toilet, when I made the stunning realization of why and why all of this was so frightening to me.  I'm still trying to unpack it all, but I'll do my best to explain it here.

My first, unbidden thought about a dating app, and then "swiping right" was:  But then they can see me!

I recognized that non-butterfly feeling in the pit of my stomach.  I didn't want to invite their attention.
At. All.

Because then what?
Then I'm stuck with them.
How do I get rid of them?

Things like
Tease
Well, you were asking for it
You invited me
bounced through my head.

Inviting attention like this felt akin to interacting with cat-callers and street harassers (which I don't do).  Just keep your head, girl; just keep on walking.

I flashed back to a date I had in 2006-ish with a man.  We met for drinks at his apartment first, before dinner.  Sitting on his couch, mid-conversation, mid-sentence even!, he leaned over and put his mouth on mine in a slightly insistent (and not all that great) kiss.  I was more shocked than anything at the time.  Yes, I had agreed to a date, but that didn't automatically mean (forcing) a kiss, let alone in the first 20 minutes!  I didn't like the kiss, and then I still had to suffer through the rest of the date.

I thought of my stalker and our original coffee meet-up/non-date.

And through all of this, and telling some of the briefest bits of these insights to a couple of friends, I tried not to cry at my desk at work.  On my birthday, no less!

I thought back to the old days of the Internet and some of the BDSM forums, trying to extricate myself from people I clearly wasn't interested in but had made the mistake of being "nice" to.

I didn't (and don't) want any of that again.  I didn't (and don't) want to be accused of leading anyone on².  I didn't want to "swipe right" unless I was absolutely sure I could "follow through" (with what?  what the fuck does that even mean??) -- and that's not how these apps are designed, even the ones that are designed for more than just random hook-ups.

And that's when I realized I'm not ready for this yet.  That's a lot of baggage to unpack, mostly (though certainly not only) due to toxic masculinity.

Everything is still too new, my heartbreak too fresh; I'm still too tender and bruised.

One thing about the person who did break my heart:  I felt very safe with and around them, both physically and emotionally.  There was very little holding back of feelings and words, the freedom of which was exhilarating.
-- up until the moment they broke my heart, of course.  That almost goes without saying.

So today I messaged two of the five "matches" I had made³ and basically said, "Sorry, I'm not ready for this dating thing; I did enjoy your profile."  And then I made my profile "private" again.
I didn't owe them that (or anything), but in addition to not wanting to be rude, I might want to find them again when/if I return to the wide, wide world of online dating.

But Jesus H. Christ!  Who would have thought that one free app and sitting on the toilet alone with my thoughts would bring to light so. many. issues.

And I don't just mean with me.

I mean with our society that has instilled such fear in me -- a forty-year-old woman -- making me too paralyzed to "swipe right."

¹I have emailed the Bumble staff about that; rather, I put down that I'm interested in both men and women, yet I'm only getting men's profiles.  The only way I've been able to see women's profiles is if I change it to women only.

²One of the things I appreciate about Bumble is that men can't initiation conversations.  At. All.  Once a "match" has been made, the woman has 24 hours to start a conversation (another conundrum/source of stress for me -- the time limit!).  After that, the "match" disappears.  If both people are same-sex, either can initiate conversation.

³Only if both people have "swiped right," will you both be alerted that a "match" has been made.  So far only 5 of us had done so.  But for my ego boost, Bumble kept showing me the number of people who had already "swiped right" for me, offering to show those profiles first (if I upgraded the app and paid them money).  That number was last at 50+.  Yay me.

Whole Foods: A Christmas Story

On Saturday, December 23^rd, I had to brave Whole Foods in order to pick up our order for Christmas Eve dinner with the family.  You should know that, in no particular order:

• I dislike shopping
• I dislike new and/or unfamiliar places
• I dislike Whole Foods and the sensory overload it provides
• I dislike crowds
• I dislike people
• I dislike crowds of people when I'm forced to go shopping

Last year's run to Whole Foods around the same time for the same stuff ended up like this (per my FB feed):

 rain, traffic, Whole Foods and trying to keep my panic attack at least until I reach the car (complete with white knuckles, fingering my paper list to self-soothe, and talking to myself like the mentally ill person that I am), waiting, more traffic, more rain, getting lost/turned around, canceling my hair appointment last minute because I was still stuck on the highway with a trunk full of Christmas groceries and there was no way I'd make it on time (or close to on time), crying the rest of the way home (hello, panic attack), unpacking groceries and toys amidst dogs and cats.

So I knew what was in store (pun intended) for me.  Unlike last year, I knew better than to attempt to plan more than this shopping trip in one day.  Even when I used to have to go grocery shopping (is no longer my job), I would attempt to do nothing else so that I wasn't in any sort of hurry.

I remembered the way to Whole Foods, and the parking lot wasn't crazy.  I walked inside, and it wasn't crazy either.

Okay, this might not be so bad.

I had my list in hand to remind me what to get.  Even if I'm only going to Walgreens I have to have a list; otherwise, I'll end up tunnel-visioned, wandering up and down aisles, often forgetting what I came in for (and ending up with a bunch of other random shit).

I picked up the crab legs we ordered ✔
I wandered a bit looking for wine ✔

And what is that delicious smell tickling my nostrils?  It's the bakery.  I held off on heading that direction, knowing that our cake would be the last item I got before hitting the check-out.

I wandered several more aisles, often repeating myself, looking for various snacks and household items.

Finally, the bakery again.  I could still smell fresh bread baking and my stomach was growling.  I looked at the fresh breads available for purchase, wondering which one was making the smell I was smelling.  For a brief moment, I considered sniffing every type of loaf available...

I decided on a "French round" loaf.  Then I went search for something creamy and spreadable on this decadent bread.  I ended up with a creamy Gorgonzola (sold to me by the lady behind the counter wearing a Star Wars shirt, so I knew I was in good company).
I then picked up our cake ✔

And I headed to the check-out lines.

Oh, here's where all the people are!

No wonder the store didn't seem too crowded or crazy; everyone was waiting with their carts to check out.  I found a spot in the nearest line and proceeded to wait.  Back before the days of smartphones (and when I still had to do the grocery shopping), I would usually amuse myself with People Magazine or a tabloid or something (anything!) to read while waiting in line, soothing myself in my head that I was fine because I had no other place to be.

I took a deep breath and tried that plan for today, using my phone to amuse myself instead.  The Express line was moving along alright, but I am not one of those assholes who goes into that line with more than the listed number of allowed items.

And other lines picked up the pace a bit.
But not mine.

And the woman in front of me kept trying to make eye contact with me while she huffed or harrumphed -- y'know, like you do when trying for that "We're all in this together" attitude or "It's us versus them; aren't they the worst!" thing that happens sometimes in public.  "Mutual misery."
But I wasn't having it.

Yes, this particular checker was incredibly slow; there was no doubt about it.  But I was not in a hurry; I had nowhere else to be.  So I would either ignore her (the woman, not the checker) or smile blandly at her and then go back to my phone.

Harrumphing and rolling eyes isn't going to make the line move any faster.  And for that matter, the woman in front of me could have changed lines at any time.  I didn't.  I stayed, mentally patting myself on the back for leaving the other, faster lines for people who clearly had more important things to do.

At about the fourth or fifth harrumph, she did catch the eye of the older man behind me whose response was, "I just want to be home in time for Christmas" (it was the 23^rd).  Whatever.  I ignored them all (and probably spent 25-30 minutes just standing line).

After I checked out, I headed back out to the bright parking lot -- and could not remember at all where I had parked my car.

While I was wandering down the first aisle of cars, I heard, "Excuse me?  Can I ask you something?"  And I turned to find a young woman who had clearly been crying recently standing there.
"Sure," I say.

"Umm, we're from [a nearby small town] and we're living in a Wal-Mart parking lot and I'm just trying to get some food to eat and it's not going so well..."

Several thoughts occurred to me, almost simultaneously:

• Some of my friends prepare "care packs" for just this very thing (I haven't)
• Some friends know the names and numbers of shelters and outreaches and are prepared (I wasn't)
• Wow, begging in this area of town is very unusual
• I rarely carry cash
• I happen to be carrying cash right now, pure coincidence

I don't even know if she got to the part about asking for money, but I said, "Sure" and took the small wad of cash I (very coincidentally) had in my wallet, maybe $7 or $8, I honestly don't know and I didn't look.  I just handed it to her and she said, "Thank you" and "have a good rest of your day."

And then I was stuck still trying to find my car.  In the 5-10 minutes it took me to finally find my vehicle (Wow, I found a much better parking spot than I remembered!), I thought some other things like

• Maybe she was lying?
• Maybe I just gave her money for drugs?
• Should I have bought her a sandwich instead?
• Why was I not prepared?
• Maybe she's a just a good actress?
• I don't care.

And I didn't care about any of the above; it seemed like the right and convenient thing to do, so I did it.  And I eventually found my car.

And while putting the groceries into the trunk, the handle of one bag broke right off!

I caught the bottom of the bag with my cat-like reflexes before it hit the pavement -- it was the bag with 2 of my 4 bottles of wine it.  Thank you little baby Jesus!  It's a Christmas miracle.

After that, I made it home without incident and managed to unload groceries, also without incident.  After all of the above excitement, though, I decided I was going to do nothing but eat cheese and bread and wine for the rest of the day.

And I did.

I regret nothing.

P.S.  There is no moral to this story, no heartfelt holiday message.  It simply is what happened on December 23^rd, 2017.

The Miracle of Laundry (and Tiny Games)

One Christmas, we decided to go to the West Coast for the holiday.  And by "we," I mean my Unit and her family.  Five adults (me, my Unit, Unit's sister and brother-in-law, Unit's mother) and two small children (Unit's niece and nephew, aged 2 and 6 at the time) all sharing a small beach house on the Oregon coast.  If you're thinking "That sounds like a disaster," you're right; we now refer to it as "the worst Christmas ever" (and by "we" I really mean "me").

There were a lot of things that went wrong during that week, but this is not that story.  And there were a lot of things that stressed me out when all I wanted to do was sleep, eat, knit, and relax (having just closed my sixth show of the year literally days earlier and my first year and a half of grad school), but this is only partially that story.

During our week-long holiday/vacation/forced interactions, my sister-in-law kept doing laundry (among other things).  We were staying in a house, not a hotel, so we had laundry facilities and a full kitchen and other regular house-type things that we all had to share.  And it seemed like she was constantly doing laundry, particularly for her two children.

Now I know kids can through a lot of clothes during the day, especially infants.  But these weren't infants, so why was she constantly doing laundry?  And my stressed-out-on-vacation self was all, Who the fuck does laundry on vacation?  Did you not pack enough clothing for all six days?  Did you just bring dirty clothes with you?  Hey, I did that a time or two in college when going home for a holiday or break.

I did not and could not understand the rationale, especially as it seemed to be one of the many things stressing her out, which in turn, stressed everyone else out.

Now let's fast-forward to six years later -- to August, 2016, to be exact.  My Unit and I are just barely recovering from Treepocalypse 2016.  On August 2^nd, we moved into an actual house ("temporary housing" from our insurance company), after spending weeks in both her mom's one-bedroom house and a hotel room.  We walked into a new, larger house, completely furnished -- but none of the furniture (or linens or dishes or housewares or ANYTHING) was ours.  A week or so after that, we were able to get the first portion of our items from the storage company, including clothes and MY SHOES.

And somewhere in there, somewhere between moving into the house with my bags and suitcases from the hotel and getting boxes of items from the storage company, I started doing laundry.  The "temporary" house included a washer and dryer, on the main level no less!  No more walking up and down stairs into a possibly creepy basement for clean things.  So I washed nearly everything I could.  And dried it.  And I happily folded things and stored them neatly in our new (to us) temporary dressers and closets and drawers.

And it dawned on me:  I know why* she was doing laundry!  I finally understood.

Because when things are chaos, laundry is one thing I can control.  When things are chaos, if I can at least get my clothes clean and put away, that will make me feel grounded and at home, at little less "all over the place" and a whole lot less like I'm living out of a suitcase.  That one small thing is done and clean and fresh and "ready to start the day" (or week or month or whatever).  The entire house (literally or metaphorically) might be a mess, but my clothes are clean and in their proper place.
I could have agency over this one part of my life.

And I've come to realize it's also why I often play tiny stupid games on the computer (in the "time management" genre):  because it's one small thing I can control -- a thing I can control and often complete.  They provide a wee sense of accomplishment (as does clean laundry), even if the tiny game is ultimately useless. 

It only took six years, but I finally understood the miracle of laundry.

*Either that, or she really did not bring enough clothes for her kids -- fuck if I know.

Day #1: Embarkation

Also Known As:  I FUCKING HATE EVERYONE

We arrived at the airport at 5:30 a.m. for our 7:40 a.m. flight.  We sat in the gate area, drinking water, saying goodbye to social media on our phones, and people watching.  And in came a family of eight (three adults, five children ranging in age from 12 to two, including a wee redheaded girl who clearly gave zero fucks as she kept trying to ditch her family to go exploring).  The size of their family wasn't the remarkable part; the fact that it looked like they hadn't checked a single piece of luggage was.  Every one of those eight people had at least two carry-on items (probably more), plus a blankie or two, and a stroller.  That's 16+ pieces of luggage to carry on!  And you know most of those children were not going to help carry things, and Mom was already carrying one of the younger ones (fast asleep on her chest because he had apparently had a meltdown earlier in the terminal).  What a horrible, uncomfortable way to travel.

As my Unit and I made our way to our seats on the plane we discovered that we weren't sitting together; we both had aisle seats right across from each other.  A single white man sat in the middle seat next to my Unit, and he quickly agreed to trade seats with me; in hindsight, I should have kept my aisle seat.

Seated two rows in front of us were part of the party of eight:  the mom, the sleepy kid, and wee redhead who gave zero fucks.  None of them, thankfully, were crying or having meltdowns, but the redheaded girl would sometimes just scream and yell for the fun of it, which I sometimes feel like is worse (it's not).  And in the row in between the family and us was an older woman who was only too delighted to strike up a conversation with the home-schooled mother of five.

Unfortunately, on an airplane, at several thousand feet in the air, with all engines going, holding a conversation basically means screaming at each other for everyone to hear.
Which they did.
Nearly the entire flight.
And then the redheaded toddler began playing a game on a tablet of some sort that sounded like a slot machine.  I know it sounded like a slot machine because they had the volume turned all the way up, competing with both the plane's engines and the two women talking.

This is not the point where I rant about small children and technology.  You want to give them a screen of some kind to occupy them in public?  Perfect!  But do it all the way:  give them earbuds, too, so the rest of us aren't subjected to it.

In response to the cacophony, I dug out my iPod for its intended purpose:  to drown out my surroundings.  So I did, and I was enjoying everything from Taylor Swift's "Look What You Made Me Do" to Lin-Manuel Mirando & Co's "Almost Like Praying" when my Unit nudged me and gave me a dirty look.

"What?"
"I can hear your music!"
"Well, I have it turned up to drown out all of that," I answered, gesturing to the rows ahead of us.
"Yes, but I'm trying to tune them out, and now I have to tune out your stuff, too."
"But, they're earbuds!" was my useless argument as I couldn't understand how she could possibly hear anything from my technology with everything going on around us.  (In her defense, they were older earbuds and don't quite go all the way "in" the ear as newer ones do.)
So I huffed and grumped and I turned off my music and slumped in my seat for the remainder of the flight.  When she said again, "I'm sorry, but I could hear both," I countered with, "So now we both have to suffer??"
Her:  "Well, yeah!"

And that, kids, is marriage in a nutshell.  Should have kept my aisle seat.

At one point, I needed to use the restroom, so I set my water bottle on my seat and squeezed past my Unit.  Returning to my seat after doing my business, I picked up my water bottle and noticed that it had leaked.
All over my seat.
A significant puddle of water.
I sighed in resignation as my Unit tried to keep her laughter to herself and went to ask a flight attendant for some paper towels.  She came back with a large handful of paper towels that I used to sop up all the water.  And I sat back down and sighed, realizing I had become "one of those people," the people who make a mess, who spill things, who just can't get anything right on an airplane, much to the dismay of their nearby passengers.  My apologies to the young lady on my left, in the window seat.

Our layover in Charlotte, NC was uneventful (after getting off the plane, following the family of eight and all of their misplaced luggage and children).  Next flight my Unit had the window seat, I had the middle, and another white man sat to my right on the aisle.  I'm gonna fast-forward, except to say that the A/C was cranked up so much in plane that you could see the air coming out of all of the vents up along the walls (I assume because of the difference in moisture/humidity).  It was a little disconcerting at first, looking like we were getting gassed with something.  We weren't, and eventually it got cold enough that I put on my sweater.

So, on behalf of perimenopausal women everywhere:  thank you, American Airlines.  I wouldn't be chilly again for at least another eight days.

Here's where things get tricky:  our cruise was scheduled to leave at 4 p.m. EST.  Our embarkation time was between 2:30-3 p.m. EST.  Our flight was scheduled to land in Ft. Lauderdale, FL between 1:30-2 p.m. EST.  Needless to say, we were worried about making everything on time.  We had purchased "cruise insurance" which covered us in case of flight delay, but still.  This was our first cruise.  Everything once we left the airport was new to us (in bold because that's important).

The info from the cruise line had said that porter service for baggage stopped two hours priors to leaving, so we assumed we'd have to schlep our bags to our room ourselves with our 2:30 time.  Apparently not so.  When our cabbie dropped us off, a porter immediately offered to take our bags (and got a generous tip for his effort).

And then we walked.  And then we walked some more.  I was trying to follow the signs that told us what to do.  I'm not sure what I expected, but I do think I thought I'd just be able to walk onto the boat, and that'd be that.  Not so.

More lines, more security checks, more longer lines.  At least we weren't schlepping our luggage.  When we got the last line to check in, the lady at the desk informed us that lunch on the Lido deck stopped at 4 p.m., but that our rooms should already be ready.  I remember that in the cruise line literature, too; something to the effect of, "many people enjoy a leisurely lunch on the Lido deck while waiting for their staterooms."  Okay, cool.

More walking, more ramps, some really steep ramps, and then finally, the boat itself!  Yet another person scanned our papers and gestured into a room that my memory can only partially register because of the sensory overload.  It was pink-ish colored, full of lights and sounds, and people with drinks, kids with ice cream, music, and shouting.  I just looked at the guy in the white sailor's outfit, lost, and said, "How do we get to our rooms??"
"The elevator," he says, with a gesture.

So we find the elevators and the long line for them.  This may have been the point where my Unit and I decided to take the stairs; it was only three floors.

We get to our room; our luggage isn't there yet.  Oh well.  I desperately want to change clothes and shoes into something cooler, but start to settle for stripping off every article of clothing and lying on the bed.  But my Unit stops me and says, "Let's get you something to eat and a drink."
Yes, please.  That's what vacation is all about.

So we head up to the Lido deck -- remember, the "leisurely lunch" from earlier?  I'm not sure what I expected, but I had an image of people sitting at white-clothed tables on an open deck eating, I don't know, tiny cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off or something.  I couldn't have been more wrong.

What we found was complete and utter MADNESS!  It was a buffet -- A BUFFET OF CHAOS!  I think even a "normal" (non-anxiety-ridden) person would have been stressed out at the pandemonium of this "buffet."  For me, though, a person with crippling anxiety who needs to know where I'm "supposed" to go, the order in which I'm "supposed" to do things, where the line begins, if I order my own food, and what "the rules" are, etc., it was torture¹.  I think my body and brain just shut down the moment we stepped into the room and were hit with the noise and bodies scrambling for food.

And then, to make matters worse, they announce over the loudspeakers that food and beverage service would be shutting down entirely for the safety briefing.  So then they start taking the food away!  Little signs start popping up saying, "Buffet Is Closed." And some devious chefs left the food out, but just removed the serving utensils.  I was carrying around an empty plate, almost in tears and walking aimlessly, when I found my Unit and just said, "They keep taking the food away!"
"Just grab something, anything!" she says before heading back into the fray.

I managed to put some squares of red Jell-O on my plate and two bars listed as "mint chocolate glaceau."  And that was it.  I didn't even have utensils; I ate everything with my fingers.  Rejoining my Unit, we searched desperately for an open (and clean-ish) table to sit; we ended up going outside to the humid deck and sitting down at a semi-clear table.  She had managed to grab some tortilla chips and potato salad and a napkin. We sat in silence and ate our miserable scavenged lunches, any thought of obtaining an adult beverage long since dashed.

Now begins the portion where we go back and forth to our stateroom in hopes that our luggage would be there.  Guess what?  It wasn't.  And every time we got back to the room I would strip down in an attempt to cool off.  This lasted throughout the hour-long "safety briefing" (mandatory attendance, outside, standing 3-people deep), my Unit going in search of the smoking area, and even a false alarm knock on our door that I thought was our luggage, but was the room steward asking when we wanted our room cleaned.

I was actually lying on the bed, sweating, my Unit out of the room, when the ship's engines started and we actually started to move.  I wanted to yell out, "We're moving!" but I was too exhausted and no one was around anyway.  I laid there, waiting to see if I'd feel seasick.  Nope!  I (mostly) loved the feel of the moving boat; it feels like lying on a giant, snoring dog (you can quote me).

My Unit arrived a bit after that with a glass in her hand.

"I got you a drink.  It's sangria, but it tastes awful.  Here, try it."

Again, marriage, folks.
And yes, I drank it.
It wasn't that bad; I discovered later it was sangria out of a bottle, not made fresh, which explained the not-fantastic taste.

We had hoped our luggage would arrive before dinner (we had the "early" dining time of 6 p.m.).  It did not.  So we went down to dinner in the hopes that it would appear by the time we returned to our room.

Dining on a cruise is an experience in and of itself.  For starters, you have the same waitstaff every night, so you get to know each other.  You are also seated at a table with strangers (unless you have 6-8 people in your own party).  And when you're two lesbians in a new situation among strangers, things have the potential to go badly quickly because, frankly, there are bigots everywhere.

On this our first night at the dining table, we were the first two to be seated.  And we waited and watched if anyone else would be sitting there, trying not to hold our collective breath if new people would suck or not.  Two separate times a waiter led people (women) to the table, in 2's or 3's, and each time there was a quick, hushed conversation with said waiter and anxious, furtive looks from the women, and then they were led away.

Now maybe they had mistaken the table number.  Maybe they had meant to sit with their friends?  Maybe it wasn't about us at all.  Or...maybe it was.  It wouldn't be the first time.  About halfway through our dinner a mother-daughter couple was seated with us and we all politely said hello.

My Unit and I ordered drinks with our meal, of course, and then, as we were looking at the menu, my Unit asks me if I think the theme drink for the evening is included in our drink package (because of course we ordered the drink package!).  Our waiter (Gideon) said that for drink package drinks the receipt handed to us should always say $0.00. 

Uh-oh.

Our drink receipts from the earlier sangria (and then a pina colada) had dollar amounts on them.  Then Gideon brought back our current receipts:  also dollar amounts.  He suggested we check with customer service about our package.  My Unit swore up and down she purchased the drink package.  She even remembered the total amount we'd be charged;  I remembered the day she did it (because I was working from home that day and she was trying to talk to me about drinks).  Nevertheless we were going to have to investigate; I needed to ask about our off-shore excursion tickets anyway.

We were going to hit customer service right after dinner, but first -- back to the room!  Joy of joys -- our luggage had finally arrived!  It had only taken five hours since we first gave it to the porter.  I changed clothes (finally!) and shoes and we trekked to customer service (down 3 floors and all the way on the other end of the boat).

As we didn't have Internet access on our phones (on purpose), we could not show the credit card charge for the drink package and stingray excursion to the customer service lady to prove that it had happened.  We ended up having to purchase everything over again (mentally deciding to check all statements when we got home again in eight days; if there were duplicate charges, the credit card company would remove the extras).  We purchased our drink package and two tickets for the stingray excursion in Half Moon Cay, Bahamas (Day #3).

And all we had to do was stand in line for 15-20 minutes behind a crazy lady who decided to befriend us.  She stood all of five feet tall (if that), had dyed blonde hair, and was in her mid-fifties (by her own admission).  And just beneath her blonde bangs were two jet-black eyebrows that had to have been tattooed on her forehead.  I couldn't stop staring at them; thankfully, it looked like I was making general eye contact with her as she chattered about why she was in standing in line.

"Eyebrows" (as she shall henceforth be known) had "spent the last three hours" cleaning her stateroom because it was "filthy" when she got there.  (By "cleaning," she meant wiping everything down with a damp paper towel, she explained to us.)  "None of the corners had even been touched by a vacuum cleaner."  And she cruises a lot -- A LOT!  She's a flight attendant, so she knows about these things.  And she's cruised with Carnival before, and she has never had a room this bad.  And she "told the steward it wasn't his fault, but really it is; I mean, it's his job."  And she would heave a sigh as only the truly put-upon can and say, "I don't want to complain; I want to enjoy my vacation,...but" (conspiratorially) "if the rooms are dirty, what else is dirty?"

But that's not the kicker.  And neither were the eyebrows the most bizarre part.  The bizarre part was during all of this conversation she had her room key in one hand and a black plastic knife in the other.
And we never found out why.
She never said why she had the plastic knife (or how it related to the room-cleaning saga).  Sometimes she would use it to punctuate her statements, as we saw when it was her turn at the customer service counter and the customer service guy would instinctively back away a bit when she waved it around.  We never saw her again during the remainder of the trip.  And we never could figure out the plastic knife.

After all was said and done, we got (more) drinks and sat on our room's balcony.  I took in the air, the stars, the waves, the rock of the boat (and my Nth drink) and finally, finally said, "This is very relaxing."  But it took the entire fucking day to get there.

Up next:  Our First Port

¹Other fun things I stressed out about during the time in the cabin and rushed to look up while my phone still had an Internet connection:

• Do we really have to attend the safety briefing?
• Where is our "mustard station"? ("Muster station," but it sounded like "mustard" every time)
• Where are the life jackets?  Are we supposed to wear them?
• Is this water included in the drink package?
• Are we supposed to eat in the dining room on the first night (or is it just more buffet chaos)?
• Where's breakfast tomorrow morning?
• Is there breakfast tomorrow morning?
• Why isn't it listed?
• I thought I read something about a brunch.  WHERE'S THE BRUNCH??
• How do we know when it's a "dress-up" night?
• What happens if you don't meet the dress code?
• What day is our off-shore excursion?
• Where are the tickets?
• This says tickets will be delivered to our room, but they're not here.

Listen to Your Gut

And by "your gut," I mean MY gut.  I've advocated frequently in the past for listening to your body, your "gut" and what it's trying to tell you about (possibly dangerous) people.  And I was recently slapped in the face by the Universe with not one, but two reminders to take my own damn advice.

Reminder #1:  If It Feels Awkward, It's Because It Is

Friendships shouldn't feel awkward.  If you continually feel awkward around a person or get a "weird vibe" from them, a second glance should be taken at said friendship.  Sometimes it can be hard because you'll tell yourself it's just in your imagination or even "Well, maybe s/he is just an awkward person."  Listen to your gut.  Even if the latter is true, you will eventually find a rhythm with that friend, and things won't be awkward.

Unless they are.

In which case, look for the patterns.  Dammit, Leonard, you're an analyst by trade!  You should have seen this sooner.  But just like in my day job, sometimes it's hard to see the larger patterns at work when you're up close and personal with the data.  Ya gotta back up a bit.

Patterns in no particular order include:  walking on eggshells for fear of upsetting said person, the giving of unwanted gifts, randomly showing up to a person's appointments and things (unannounced), continually having to defend said friendship as not being inappropriate or "that way."

There's wearing your heart on your sleeve, and then there's obsession with people.  And each obsession follows the same steps and same patterns above, lather rinse repeat.  There's having a friend with whom you can talk and discuss things, and then there's using a person as your personal (verbal) punching bag.  It took me five fucking years to realize this particular pattern and lesson, despite the awkwardness and despite my gut.

Reminder #2:  If It Sounds Fishy, It Probably Is

Caution should be taken when entering into business arrangements of any kind -- even businesses with friends and acquaintances, even business ventures that don't require any money from you.  I've realized that I tend to take most things at face value until proven otherwise.  But when you keep asking for data, for answers, for things to be accomplished, for months at a time, and it's a continual delay and/or lip service, Leonard is out.  I wouldn't put up with that during my day job or any of my other business dealings, why would I take it from an acquaintance?

And that's just it -- an acquaintance.  I had to step back and realize "I've only known said individual for X number of months."  Friends, those I've known for years, are deserving of some faith, some "benefit of the doubt"; they've earned some good will and a little free work (my time).  But even after that time has passed, I would expect results from them.

People who I have known for less than a year, I need to start asking for proof up front.  And sometimes when starting a project from the ground up, that "proof" won't be there.  And that's okay; that just means that I'm not meant to be part of the "ground-up" team.  Call me when you have data, answers, contact information, receipts, a functional website.

And again, look for the patterns:  continual removing and/or replacing of people.  The same or similar answers in response to "Where is this thing?"  Walking on eggshells, uneven temperament, extreme reactions to nearly everything.  None of those are ideal characteristics when trying to run a business, a foundation, or start a program from the ground up.

And frankly no one project is worth my feeling sick to my stomach every time I check my e-mail, wondering what fiasco, drama, or temper tantrum is awaiting.

Conclusion:

Some of this is on me.  I don't consider myself a gullible person (but what gullible person does?).  I'm a cynic, a skeptic, and an irritatingly rational person well-versed in the art of rhetoric.  I need that healthy dose of skepticism at the start of a project (or friendship), not later, when I'm waiting to be proved wrong.  A little less good will and a lot more "please provide your references."  I need to speak up louder when I begin questioning things and when I disagree and to not feel bad about doing so.

And, as always, I need to listen to my gut.  It hasn't been wrong yet.

Comic by The Awkward Yeti

Mental Energy Not Withstanding

Iron infusions (a.k.a. "superhero treatments") seem to be working.  Despite the side effects immediately following each treatment, I do actually feel better!  *knock on wood*

The downside of all of this newfound energy (y'know, what normal people feel like) is that my brain can't keep up.  Meaning:  mentally, the energy (or desire) isn't there.  I don't want to think, process, read, write, analyze.  Before, I was exhausted and in bed by 8 p.m., and my brain was done, no problem.  But now...

Is this why people watch TV?  So they can turn off their brains for a while?  But I can't do that.  When I watch TV or movies, I want to be involved, interested, invested, and engaged.  So far, the boob tube hasn't been allowing me to "tune out."

You know what does?

Wine.

And sometimes vodka.

But I shouldn't be getting liquored up just to douse my brain.  That doesn't seem right.  In fact, I know it's not right -- there's a whole episode of House about it!  (Except the guy in that episode doped up on cough syrup, of all things -- just like one of the first guys I ever date, but that's a different story.)

My Unit helpfully made a list this morning of things I can do to help us since last night I was wondering around our (rental) house saying, "I don't know what to do with myself!"  From here, my desk at work, I've accomplished 3 of the 5 things on the list -- in addition to doing all of my work for the day, editing/proofreading a holiday letter for a business, and sitting in a chair with an IV in my arm for two hours.

Ugh.

Time to find some new (time-consuming) hobbies as I don't have any shows on the books for the foreseeable future.

They Say You Can't Go Home Again

I say why would you want to?

I often have recurring dreams of the house and neighborhood in which I grew up.  In the dreams, I'm usually coming back to the house or subdivision after having been away for quite some time (just like in real life).  But in the dreams, the roads are longer and more desolate.  The house is quite a bit bigger, similar to how my little eight-year-old self might have seen it.  It's almost always night, and sometimes there are large dogs involved.

It doesn't take a Freudian scholar to analyze the messages my subconscious is sending to me.  My brain replays the images of my youth, distorting them to show the fear and sometimes abject terror I felt growing up.  The anxiety and anger is there, too; I often wake up feeling irrationally angry.  In the dream I may have been screaming in anger and throwing punches, things I was never able to do when I lived at #6 Tompkins Drive.  Of course, even in the dreams the punches are unsatisfying; the anger feels impotent.

I feel I should insert a disclaimer here:  there are people who fared far worse than I growing up.  Compared to them, I'm sure my childhood looks like middle-class paradise.

I haven't had these dreams in quite some time -- crap, I'm even getting teary-eyed just writing about them -- but lately I've been haunted by the fact that I did go back one time and snap some photographs of my childhood home.  My father's family has long since left #6.  There were no people to visit, just blank places to stare at.  The fact that I did go back and take photographs is disturbing to my mind because I can't quite remember which memories are real (from my childhood), real (from the return trip), or just recollections of my vivid (and disturbing) dreams.  Perhaps seeing the photographs will help me clear up the confusion.

I had planned, I think, on posting the photos on my old blog (really old, like that site doesn't even exist anymore), but just never got around to it -- which translates into, "It's too heavy to deal with, so I'll put it off."  So I decided to look back at those pictures, post them here with perhaps some small descriptions attached, and maybe lay to rest a few ghosts, though certainly not all.

Imagine my surprise when, just now as writing this (and multitasking, as usual), I brought out the external hard drive, looked through my files from that Thanksgiving road trip, and found one.
Just one photograph of the house in question.  None of the roads leading up to it, the signs of the subdivision, not even the fence or the yard of the house.  Just one lone picture of an innocuous ranch-style house.

I don't know whether to cry or vomit or both.  I was actually looking forward to a small bit of catharsis by seeing and attempting to describe things that hold so much negativity for me.  I was really looking forward to clearing up in my brain what was real and what was false.  But now I can't.  It's just the same Swiss cheese muddle it was before.

I think the fact that I took only one picture is somewhat telling.  I took over seventy pictures on that road trip -- of me, of my dog, of the apartment building I grew up in, even a couple of my old high school.  But the house in which I spent seven years of hell?  Just one plain photograph.

Still I suppose I can tell you about that one photograph:

The house is now a light beige color (as shown).  When we moved in, it was a delightful light peach color.  Not a pink house, but my little girl heart thought it was close enough.  Within a few weeks, my stepmother demanded that it be repainted.  Something about light-colored houses getting too hot; I don't really know.  So they picked out a new color, and sometimes I'd get to help paint.  The new color?  A dark, I'm-not-getting-enough-water-so-my-stool-is-really-hard brown.  The house looked like a giant glob of mud.

See the window on the far left?  That window was home to one of my greatest achievements as a former food-hoarder.  I used to hoard food for years, sticking snacks and crackers and cookies in various drawers and coat pockets.  My dad and stepmother could never quite figure out why my bedroom had a near-constant infestation of ants.  I used to spend hours watching the ants eat the poison they put out, but that's another story.  One winter I managed to sneak a frozen fudge bar (or fudgesicle, if you will) all the way from the kitchen freezer down the hall to my bedroom on the corner of the house there.  When my stepmother came in to inspect my room (as she did after every time that I had to clean it), she looked in, judging as usual.  My heart pounded in my chest because the fudgesicle was stored in that window between glass and the storm window on the outside (so it would stay cold, of course).  The thick wooden window frame (maybe two inches wide all the way around) kept my fudgesicle hidden from view.  When she left, I enjoyed my tasty frozen victory and said a silent "fuck you."

And that's all she wrote:  that is where this particular post, originally started sometime in 2013, ends.  And I think that's where I'll leave it for now.  For more on houses, monsters, and childhood terrors, see "The Long Road Home."

Queen of Denial

My last teaching gig did not end well.  So much so, that even my therapist has said that I've been going through post-traumatic stress disorder since it ended.  My first semester back teaching after that I was a nervous mess.

Anyway, I was filling out some employment paperwork, making sure all my teaching gigs were listed, and they needed the name of the principal of said PTSD teaching gig.

And I absolutely could NOT remember.  I could picture her (and her very dour expression) in my mind's eye , but I could not remember her name for the life of me.  I actually had to Google the school and look over its webpages to find her name. 

So that's healing, right?  Completely blocking out the name of horrible person means I'm moving on?  Eh, probably not.

It's also ironic as we have similar first names.

Adventures in New Things

First and foremost, Leonard's not dead!  Just really busy and really, really tired.  The first two weeks of school have passed by in a flash, and my head is still reeling.  So many new things!  New things can be exciting, sure, but they are also really, really scary.  And upsetting.  And mind-numbing.  And bad.

If you don't already know this, Leonard suffers from major social anxiety and panic attacks.  "But Leonard," you're saying, "you're an actor and a performer!  How can you have social anxiety??"  I could give a fairly in-depth response about the differences between performing in front of a captive audience versus being thrust into the middle of a crowd, but instead I'll just quote The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen:

 

"I'm complicated."

So new things can be very....interesting.  New places, new rules, new things = sensory overload.  For example, one of my least favorite things is trying out a new eating establishment.  Where do I order?  What all is on the menu?  Do I order here and then pay over there?  What sides does it come with?  Do I have to clean up after myself and put my tray away?  What are all those other people doing?  Let's watch them and see what they do first.

I'll actually start to get a tunnel-visioned, only able to see in front of me, almost no peripheral vision as I try to take it all in.

These first two weeks have included new places like that with me trying not to wander around aimlessly having a small mental breakdown.

New cafeteria:  I eat for free at one of the universities -- woohoo!  But it's a cafeteria -- chock full of things that cause me to hyperventilate.  Where do I go?  Oh here's a tray.  I'll take a tray.  Watch out for those people.  Don't run into them.  Don't let the students judge you.  Why is there a long line?  Do we all have to wait in line?  There must be good stuff there if everyone is waiting for it.  What if I don't like it?  Where are the plates?  I do eat for free, right??

The main cafeteria is "dine-in only."  There are no to-go bags or boxes.  But I couldn't figure out if that meant I could back in and get seconds (it's free!) if I wanted to.  So I literally sat at my table for five minutes, found a person who had already been eating, watched them stand up, and followed  them (with my eyes) as they went back in, got seconds, and came back to their seat with no repercussions.  I did the same thing when it came time to leave.  Where do I put this tray?  Is there a trash can?  What are all those other people doing?  Let's just watch them.  But casually, CASUALLY!!! Don't be a creeper.

Lather, rinse, repeat for each one of the dining establishments on campus.  There are four.

And then the REALLY new stuff:  working out at a gym.

Disclaimer:  Leonard has not been in a gym to, y'know, "work out," in over a decade.  So I've been wracking my brain trying to remember those things my ex-husband told me during the two times I went to the gym with him.

The first gym excursion was a bonafide clusterfuck.

I had plotted out my course, found the gym on the campus map, found my own location as well, and packed a bag with all my goodies (although I forgot a towel).  After teaching my class, I walked over the gym, trying to take deep, cleansing breaths, and signed in.  I asked the work study student at the front where the fitness center was, and she told me.  Then I asked where the locker rooms were, and she told me.  They were nowhere near the fitness center.

So I headed over the locker room to put my stuff.  Except every door over where it said "locker rooms" was locked (there were three).  So I said "fuck it" and headed to the fitness center, which is really just a glorified large room with some equipment in it.  I told that work study student that the locker rooms were locked.  She said, "Oh, they shouldn't be.  Bob the GA should be able to unlock them."

So I walked with her through the gym back to the front of the building to find Bob.  But we couldn't find Bob.  We did find a woman who works there (an adult this time), and told her we couldn't find Bob and that the locker room doors were locked.  She said, "Oh, I can unlock them!"  So then I walked with her back to the locker rooms.

"Doesn't your key work?" she asked me.

"I don't have a key," I said.  Hell, I don't even have an office at this institution.

"No, I mean your key card," she says.  And then I remember that our I.D.'s double as key cards.

"Oh, I don't know.  I didn't see one of those --" and I lamely imitate the swiping motion of the key card.

We get to the locker rooms, and she, too, realizes that only one door has the key card swiping thingie.  I try it.

No go.

She tries it.

Still no go.

She manages to  unlock one of the other doors, and I get a peek inside the locker room.

It's not a locker room like I remember.  It's a private locker room for one of the women's teams, complete with wood paneling and their names above their stuff.  Not what I had in mind at all.  I was at a loss.  Where was I supposed to put my stuff?  Where could I shower?

Turns out hardly anyone uses the locker rooms like that anymore (according to "Coach").  The office woman assures me that she can unlock the doors anytime for me if I ask her.  I thank her and head back to the fitness room.

I get on the treadmill and push some random buttons so I can walk quickly for 20-25 minutes.  As I walk on the treadmill, the once empty room starts to fill up with students who look like they actually know what they're doing.  I try to look like I know what I'm doing it.  I'm sweating a lot from walking around the entire complex during the Great Locker Room Clusterfuck of '13.  Plus it's a million degrees outside.  When I'm done on the treadmill, I head back to my car and drive all the way home so I can shower and maybe cry.  And nap.

End Result:  University #1's facilities suck.

Two days later, I repeat the process with the gym at University #2.  The night before, just like University #1, I do my research.  I find the facility on the campus map.  I plot my route.  I try to figure out as much as I can from what's available online.  Where do I go?  Do I sign in?  Do they provide towels, or do I have to bring my own?  Do they provide locks, or do I provide my own?  What kind of equipment is there?  Is it stuff I remember how to use?

University #2's facility is whole new world.  For starters, it takes up an entire first floor of a building.  There are several courts, a free weight room, a fitness center, and REAL locker rooms, complete with lockers and showers.  All of that is a sigh of relief.  I put my stuff away and head to the space with the exercise machines and treadmills.  I try to keep focused, even though I'm getting tunnel-visioned from all the new stuff.

Just find the treadmills.  We know treadmills.  Don't do anything besides treadmills today.  Don't wanna overdo it.

I find a treadmill, and it's state of the art.  I could even plug my iPhone into it if I wanted to.  I could watch TV on an individual screen if I wanted to.  I just want to walk quickly and listen to my iPod and zone out for a bit.  So I push some random buttons in an attempt to mimic my fast-walking from the day before at University #1.

But no.  This fancy new  treadmill does more than just let me walk fast.  It changes.  It changes the incline and the speed on my "route."  Suddenly it's moving quickly and I desperately try to find the button to slow it down before I pull a George Jetson in front of students who could very well be MY students.   

I keep up the best I can.  I sweat and I breathe hard.  When I'm done, I step off the treadmill and try not to pass out.  The floor still feels like it's moving, and my head is reeling.  Just make it to the locker room.  Just make it to the locker room.  I can shower in the locker room.  Don't pass out in the gym.  Don't trip in front of students.

I text my Unit from the locker room:  "220 calories and 29 minutes on the treadmill.  I feel a little dizzy."

Her response:  "Slow down, cowgirl!"

That shower was the best shower I ever had.  When it was over and I was dressed, I headed to cafeteria #2 to repeat that process all over again of figuring out how to eat.

It's been two weeks, and I think I may have figured out a routine.  Sort of.  I've added some other exercise equipment into the mix; each time I get a little tunnel-visioned as I try to read the pictures and instructions on the machines.  A lot has changed in ten years in the wide world of fitness.  As usual, I don't want to ask questions of the work study students in an attempt to keep the number of times I look like an idiot to a minimum.  I think I've done okay; I've only "wandered" the entire fitness center looking around once.  Okay, maybe twice.  I've also lost two pounds.

Some of the heart-pounding anxiety has lessened, and I no longer feel like I'm going to die in the locker room.  But is it any wonder I slept for fifteen hours last night?

End Result:  New things are exhausting; change is bad.

Monica Waters: You don't like change, do you?
Adrian Monk: I have no problem with change. I just don't like to be there when it happens.