Speaking in tongues

 The theory of palate is an interesting thing. I have a friend who is a picky eater supposedly because he's a "super taster" - tastes every single nuance in food, and so is easily overwhelmed by anything flavorful. My husband's pickiness has nothing to do with flavor. He's picky more on principle than palate, as is evident by the way he won't eat white cheese, even if it's cheddar, and only eats it when it's orange. 

This morning I did a Google search to figure out why it is that I can't find a specialty coffee that I actually like. It boils down to my taste buds not being trained on the new style of coffee which often has a "bright" taste to it, that comes across as sour to my unrefined taste buds. It may come as a surprise to you then, to hear I also don't like IPAs. Go ahead, tell me I just haven't tried the right IPA, and I will tell you that I don't like "hoppiness". If you don't like hoppiness, you're probably not going to enjoy an IPA, whose main goal is to bring out the hoppiness. 

Spring has sprung in the vineyard, and all vines are showing signs of life. The Cabernet is developing flowers, and the straggling Merlot vine has several new leaves. Since we've made it this far, I'm now beginning to read up on how I'm supposed to care for these grapes, then perform some sort of miracle to turn them into wine. My new wine bible says I need to "educate" my palate first so that I will know what a truly high quality wine should taste like, and that the author finds it a shame when people wrinkle their noses at some of the best wines, when in actuality they just need to educate their palates. This brings me pause.

I guess at some point, I developed a taste for black coffee (when it's not sour or "bright"). I probably wouldn't have liked it when I was 5 years old, drinking out of my mom's abandoned cups that were thick with cream and sugar. I must have had to "educate" my taste buds on wine and beer and whiskey. So maybe there's something to this "refined taste buds" thing......

But I'm not so sure. If I drink a wine that tastes good (I do like the taste of wine, so there are plenty of wines whose taste I do enjoy), then it's a good wine. If I don't like the taste, then does it make sense that I should educate my taste buds until I do? That reminds me of a coworker who said "We don't have to agree with me, but if you don't, let's talk about it until you do."

Taste buds: "Blech! This is awful!"

Brain: "No, no, it's good. Try again. This time with the thought of how old a vine the fruit came from, how perfect the soil, the climate, the aging process. Try it again."

Taste buds: "Blech! It's still awful! It's sour! It's pungent! Yuck!"

Brain: "No, it's bright and rich."

Taste buds: "Sour and pungent."

Brain: "I'm telling you, you're just young and ignorant. It's bright and rich."

Taste buds: "Oh, bright and rich you say? Oh yes, I see it now, this tastes fantastic!"

No, I don't think it works that way. Or well, I guess it does, however, I'm not sure I support that type of thinking. If the first sip of wine makes you pucker....maybe wait a minute or so and try again. If you're gagging by the third gulp, I would say forget your taste buds and go for that two buck chuck that you like so much. Why does it matter that you like the thing that all the cool kids like?

Because that's what it is (in my humble, unrefined taste buds' opinion). IPAs are taking the beer world by storm, and the people drinking them are convinced that everyone should love them, and if they don't, they aren't drinking the right one. In my opinion, we should all love thick chocolate stouts, and I can't understand why anyone wouldn't. IPAs are disgusting. "Bright" (sour) coffee is disgusting. I need a cup of comfort in the morning, not a kick in the mouth. Same thing with wine. I like wine that tastes good. Why would I pay money for wine that doesn't? Especially if I have to take a wine appreciation course for someone else to tell me that a gross wine tastes good. Now, if my wine tastes kinda gross, I'll drink it, because I made it and there's something special about that. If it tastes really gross, I'll dump it and figure out where I went wrong. If it tastes good but wouldn't pass by any connoisseur standards - well then hell yes, I made a good wine! 

I would like, rather, for my taste buds to educate me. My taste buds are made for informing me of what I like and what I do not like. They are wild things, not meant to be tamed. I say let them be!

2020

You already know what this is about, if you live anywhere on Earth.

There is something about submerging yourself underwater that feels much like surrender, something we could probably all do a little more of. Myself, I have somehow gone through life kicking and screaming and have failed to realize that sometimes that might not be the best approach. But sinking below the surface of the water has always felt let letting go of an immense weight that I carry with me on land. The ocean is best for this, as it will swallow you whole without mercy and couldn't care less about any punches you'd like to throw. A swimming pool works well too...though having been a lifeguard, I can tell you that they are not incredibly keen on people dropping into the deep end, sinking to the bottom, and sitting there. Makes them nervous.

Every single body of water around here is off-limits, closed until we can corral the coronavirus. Swimming pools, beaches, bays, rivers (you would not swim in the San Diego River anyway), etc. People have been arrested trying to get around it. That may very well be the only thing I miss. I don't have anything else to surrender to now- expect maybe my living room floor.

I started out the year with good intentions, as most of us do. I went for a run on the first day of the year, like usual. I have been trying to eat well, lower my stress level, get plenty of sleep, and just be a good person. I ran a marathon the first weekend in March. I took off to Kauai, just as the coronavirus was gaining traction. I made it home shortly after the Governor shut down California.

Let me tell you right off. I do not miss being around people. At all. That it is now appropriate (and encouraged) that I stay the hell away from people, is the biggest blessing I have received in a long time. Being around people stresses me out. It drains me. Now I work from the confines of my own home, alone. I run early in the morning when the streets are completely empty. But for all the grace bestowed upon me by mandatory isolation, there is possibly equal amounts cruelty in the form of judgement, perceived or actual, whenever I do leave the house. I am doing the wrong thing, all the time.

I do not cover my face when I run or ride my bike. Judging eyes are visible above the masks of anyone out and about, but I cannot restrict my breathing to appease those who are not educated about why and when the masks should be worn in the first place. But I too, am judging them. When they sit at a traffic light, alone in their cars, with windows rolled up, wearing a mask and gloves, I wonder- who do they think they're protecting?

When I came back from Hawaii, I sent my husband to the store for groceries, because he had the flexibility to go during work hours, when there wasn't a large line out the door. Now that things have quieted down and the panic is down to a low rumble, I am back to doing the shopping. Every weekend there are new rules that I am unprepared for, and every weekend I feel scorned and ashamed, and for the most part, I would admit that I have projected those feelings onto others and they probably don't think much about what I am doing.

I decided to picture myself as a post-apocalyptic warrior. I am, after all, a survivor. And what is this all to me anyway, except a bit of an inconvenience? It could certainly be worse. My hours and pay did not change, I have food (and toilet paper!) and everything I need. After last weekend's anxiety attack while grocery shopping, I decided I would adapt. I would meet the challenge and make the best of it. I would be resilient, compassionate, and brave. And I thought I was. Until I was publicly chided by an older man today for not knowing the grocery store hours had been changed to accommodate seniors.

After doing the walk of shame past the line of seniors waiting to get in the store, I steadied my warrior persona and drove up the rode to a different store. I put on my cute yellow mask with ladybugs and daisies, looked over my shopping list, and headed into the store. New store, new one-way aisles. I planned my route, then forged on- only to figure out my route did not work well with the flow diagram the store had glued to the floor.

In the checkout line, a lady directed me to a cashier.

"You can push your cart forward, but stand here. He will tell you when it's ok to put your groceries on the belt."

I waited. I watched the checker ring up the groceries of the couple in front of me. I waited for his cue. I am socially awkward. I felt a lot of pressure to get this right. The groceries in front of me dwindled until there were none. Now? He hadn't even acknowledged my presence yet. He rung them up. I waited. Did he forget? Was I doing this wrong? I turned to ask the lady who had given me the direction in the first place. She was busy talking to a coworker. The cashier finally looked over at me and turned the belt on, and said hello. Caught off guard, I said hello and frantically tried to unload my groceries to keep up with his pace. He asked if I needed bags, and I said I did, as I glanced at the sign in front of me that declared reusable bags not allowed. It's a funny question then, isn't it? I cringed as the bagger loaded my groceries into plastic bags.

As I drove home, I felt stunned. I thought I was prepared. I thought I had pulled myself together and figured this out. I thought I should be so resilient that I should be unaffected by the guy who scolded me at the first store, and unfazed by the one-way aisles that don't go the way I want them to go. Through this whole thing I have been convinced that I should be unaffected by all that is going on- because I kept my job, I don't like being around people anyway, I'm a homebody, I'm tough, I'm resourceful, and above all else, I have toilet paper. But I realized that no matter what stayed constant in my life, so much has changed, and continues to change, minute by minute. I've been informed that change causes anxiety, and I have to say I agree. I'm not a person who turns to alcohol to solve my problems, but I had already done my workout for the day, I had gone grocery shopping and had nowhere else to be for the rest of the day. It wasn't even 9 am. But I decided that in a situation like this, it is never too early for alcohol on grocery day, and I don't need to judge myself harshly for having a tough time. So I dumped a mini bottle of salted caramel liqueur into my coffee, sat on the couch, and stared out the window.

Maybe the lesson here is this: we shouldn't try so hard to make life normal when it absolutely is not.

Lessons From Plants

I don't speak plant. I never have. That being said, I've got over 70 plants living in my house and on my balcony. I love how it feels to see them grow and thrive. Seeing them suffer causes me grief and anxiety. But my plants are teaching me a lot about life, and about myself...also about plants.

Not sure where to start, so I'll start with this guy who brings me great joy.

This is my Monstera Deliciosa. Also known as a split leaf philodendron... it is apparently not really related to the philodendron. In any case, he is a juvenile, so his leaves are not split yet. Supposedly, each leaf has its own genetic makeup that determines whether or not it will be split. So it doesn't split later. The leaf is what it is, and eventually, "split" leaves will start to emerge. He changes daily, which satisfies the impatient side of me. He has three new leaves unfurled, and another on the way. With each leaf, I look carefully to see if this one will be the first one with a split. So far, he's not old enough to get splits...but he is absolutely beautiful nonetheless. His leaves are so green and bright and glossy. I put a moss pole in there for him, which he hasn't taken advantage of yet, but he likely will as he gets older. This guy tells me I'm bad-ass and can grow beautiful plants.

This guy tells me I'm full of shit.

In a sense, he keeps me humble. In reality, several of my plants do that. This is a desert rose plant. He has looked like this for at least a month. He arrived bare root and bare leaf. Just like this basically. Exactly like this. I don't know how you tell one of these things is dead or alive. Apparently, when stressed, they drop all their leaves. Then magically come back to life. So.... I don't know. He just hangs out and occasionally gets watered. He's basically a soft stick.

This guy has been through so much. It wants a lot of light. And not a lot of room around its roots. It was doing so well before I moved down here- before I stopped giving it lots of light, and when it floundered, I decided it needed more room around its roots.

This is a China Doll plant, and it is teaching me that I don't get to decide what a plant wants. It wants to be in this little pot (for now) and it wants to be in this spot. I can't argue. It's been so resilient over the last 9 months. Now it's sprouting all sorts of new growth, so I just need to leave it be.

This guy. I don't even know what to do about this guy.

This is a variegated rubber plant. And he is not dead. I know this because when he's happy, his leaves point up (according to the internet). See those two top leaves? They're pointing up. Good. Great. So what's the problem? Since I've gotten him, he's lost a leaf, and developed brown spots on several others. And strangely, he has not grown since I got him. Months ago. I keep checking the little pink tip in the middle that should, in theory, start to grow. Nothing. In months. Nothing. Just up and down movement of the leaves. I obviously do not have this thing figured out.

His cousin (also quite new, so I just haven't had the chance to ruin it yet) a Cabernet rubber plant, is doing marvelously and is quite stunning. The picture does not do it justice.

Beautiful, glossy, healthy new leaves popping up left and right. It seems unconcerned that it is now left in my hands. It just does its beautiful thing. Which leads me to believe there is something going on with his variegated friend. Where have I gone wrong?

Because of my impatience, I love plants that change every day. That's why I love this guy. He's an alocasia calidora.... and he's supposed to get huge. Here he is on February 23rd:

Just a wee little guy. I put him in a big pot for a reason. A little over a month later (March 29th), he's sprouted a much larger leaf and has another on the way.

His old leaves are falling to the side, for comparison. I'm learning that too. With a lot of these, the leaves don't grow much after they emerge. You just keep getting bigger and bigger leaves emerging.

Then there's the Calathea. Calatheas are notoriously difficult to grow. As a beginner gardener, I didn't even know what it was when I got it. Most plants from Home Depot are labeled vaguely. This guy was labeled "Assorted Tropical Plant".

I don't know. I don't know what it wants. It refuses to tell me. You can see some yellowing (and browning) there. That's a hint at an issue. But the thing is, it tends to get droopy leaves when it's upset with me. Then the leaves perk up when it's doing well. The leaves have perked up, two new leaves have arrived (showing some sort of health, no?).... except one of those new leaves arrived with browning on it. What the heck? This plant has a wonderful velvety texture, which I absolutely love. But it is neither thriving, nor dying. I'm just not sure how to make it happy. Maybe it just needs time? Maybe I expect too much? Maybe I expect it to be perfect like the monstera in my living room.

So. I do a lot of research. I read tons of web pages, which unfortunately all say different things. I can tell you that a monstera is NOT a low light plant as some sites want you to believe. There's also no such thing as a plant that does not need any light at all. The whole thing about plants is that they do the photosynthesis thing. Photo=light. Sunlight to be exact. I do have a few low light plants, and they're doing ok.

After finishing an avocado, I decided to try my hand at growing a tree from the pit. Just for fun. I planted 5 acorns back in December and they've all sprouted into healthy seedlings. How much more difficult can an avocado be?

Well for one, they're a little slower. But here he is!

I read that when he reaches 6 inches tall, I should cut him back 3 inches (or to 3 inches... depending on the website..which if he's 6 inches, that's the same thing....if you wait until he's 8 inches...what do you do?). There he is. Tall and proud.

And yet.... I was supposed to slice him in half. Oh the agony. The faith required to do such a thing (I read about faith with my dwarf umbrella bonsai, which I'll get to next) is pretty tough. The thing that makes this one less tough is that I just ordered a few more avocados to be delivered in my veggie box on Thursday, so if this thing dies, I've got backup. So I snipped him.

Not as far as I was supposed to, but I felt really bad. According to my research, avocado trees are apical dominant. So they get really tall and leggy. If you clip him, he's forced to spread out laterally and become more bushy. We'll see. In the meantime, I'll work on sprouting the next couple of avocados.

Oh the dwarf umbrella bonsai. Such a beautiful specimen. Reminds me of a palm tree in the tropics.

But he's tall and leggy. I found a forum that suggested a website that says I should just totally stump the thing. Several people swore by it. And apparently propagating the thing is fairly easily, so the top you lob off just becomes another plant. Oh how I doubt all that. But the website also talked about risk, and having faith that it's going to work out.  I can sympathize with that. I have taken a lot of risk in my life, and so far so good. So I brought him down to a semi-stump.

And now I wait.

That's lesson number one with all of these plants. Over winter, they really didn't do much. Turns out even indoor plants go dormant in winter. Big lesson there. But now that it's spring and they're starting to become much more active...I just expect them all to branch out into huge healthy plants. Turns out it's not that easy. A plant will find its way the best it knows how. I don't get to decide that. I can only pay close attention to how it responds to every change, and hope for the best.

Today I helped my Coastal Redwood seeds (and other seeds) chase the sun around my apartment as I waited for the painters to no-show.

Giant redwoods take time apparently....even to sprout. I watched how the sun moved across the room throughout the day. With the changing season, it's different than it was a couple months ago, and I haven't been home all day to see the changes. It was nice to spend the day chasing the sun and hanging out with my plants. Maybe that makes me weird. That's ok. I like my plants better than people anyway.

Morning Rain

Today I'm supposed to be breathing. Moving slowly. But habit builds itself a home and can't be broken down overnight just because it's a weekend. It's a house, not an easy-up tent. Besides, there is too much restlessness in these bones to sleep past 3:30 am. So I've instead been staring out the window at the rain, illuminated by a street light that is, in my opinion, far too bright and bears too much likeness to a sunny day.

I have recruited an army of plants as living souls to keep me company. They do not demand my conversation (although science suggest words of encouragement may actually help them grow). We're learning to communicate through drooped leaves, the reaching of a stem towards the light, and unexpected color changes. We're still learning.

This morning, like every morning, I crept around quietly, peering at each plant, looking for changes. Several have joints that move their leaves up and down and I have decided that movement is good. When they're still for too long, I wonder what's wrong. What have I messed up this time?

This morning, the calathea's leaves are slightly lifted (it's about time!), the prayer plant's new leaf is beginning to unfold, and the monstera's shoots are still rolled tightly but appear longer. It's the beginning of spring, and I wonder if those new leaves will be the first to have the coveted splits.

The night is fading to a lighter grey and the street lamp has finally turned off. Rain falls softly on the pavement and coaxes me "Find your slippers, pour another cup of coffee, bring your blanket out on to the balcony. You can breathe here."

My Brown Thumb

I kill plants. Not on purpose. I have recently concluded that I have a tendency to over-water my plants. I should've learned that a long time ago when a plant I was killing at my station suddenly thrived when the snow kept us away from the station for a couple months. Despite what my resume says, I can sometimes be a slow learner.

Because I'm deeply saddened by the current state of my Nerve Plant (fittonia), we won't talk about that yet. Instead, let's talk about my leggy China Doll Plant. Apparently legginess is not a positive characteristic in plants, regardless of how it's viewed in humans. My China Doll Plant was not looking super spunky, so I did some Googling and decided it may be slightly "leggy" and needed a little more light. I positioned it near the balcony window, got it a bigger pot, and gave it some water (more water). I went to Home Depot to purchase more plants and more pots. I came across a China Doll Plant. I now get what leggy means. My plant has what my dad would call chicken legs (he always called me that). The plant in Home Depot was full and bushy. Hmm. My plant currently has leaves curling under.... a symptom of over-watering. Go figure.

My friend Carrie, who has an amazing green thumb, gifted me with a couple pots for my balcony railing. She wasn't able to put drainage holes in them since it would only drain to my neighbor's balcony below me. As she handed them over, she assured me it was fine if I killed them. I detected a resigned sadness in her voice. I did my best.

The Great Flood of December 6th, 2018 annihilated those plants... and others that were on my balcony. Pots filled to the brim under hours of deluge. Days passed before I realized they were drowning. I could put a goldfish in a few of the pots and it would probably thrive. I drilled drainage holes in the pots from Carrie and winced as putrid smelling water drained out for an hour.

By some strange miracle, there is still a little green in those pots. I have no idea how long they'll last.

Ok, let's talk about the Nerve Plant. Not only was it one of the flood victims... it is also apparently a tropical plant (also a gift from Carrie). I know this now that it has been subjected to near freezing temperatures (post flood). I have brought it indoors and pruned it. It does not seem impressed.

My Christmas Cactus that Mike got me about a year and a half ago (which turns out is actually a Thanksgiving Cactus), is my longest living plant ever. I decided to Google the care for this guy who continues to thrive despite my inadequacies. Turns out he doesn't like cold temperatures either. I pulled him inside for the night. We'll be down near freezing again tonight, and I'll be damned if I kill another plant.

I have invested in more succulents and a couple indoor "trees". I'm also attempting to grow oak trees from the sprouted acorns I collected in Mike's mom's yard. Every day I check them for movement. That's my issue... I expect more action from my plants. They aren't doing much. Having an actual pet is not for me (for various reasons) and my plants are not active enough for me to feel like I can leave them alone. I poke and prod them daily to inspire new growth. I'm not sure they like that. The baby Chinese Money Plant that I detached from its mother and put in a tiny pot is looking like it's not going to make it. Too much water, I've concluded. It's mother has received too much water as well, but she may be hardy enough to survive.

So I'm now working on training myself to leave my plants alone. I bought a coffee plant when I was at Mike's house (its name is Mr. Coffee, although Mike insists on calling it Sanka), and so now Mike is in charge of keeping the plant alive until he moves down here with it. At first I was apprehensive and told him several times not to kill it. The thing is, Mike neglects plants. He leaves them alone. He lets them be. Mr. Coffee is probably a lot safer with him than he'll ever be with me.

As I sit in my living room and stare at all my plants, I hear my friend Debbie's voice, scolding her golden retriever. "Leave it!"

"Leave it!" I tell myself as I'm tempted to prune or adjust or (god forbid) water my plants. I'm just going to not touch them for awhile and see how they do. They're just not very interactive and I may have to learn to accept that.

Holidays and Other Intrusions

I'm a weird duck.

I suppose it's a lot like when you sit back and start to contemplate your own mortality. When I consider my list of quirks, I realize it borders on psychosis.

This morning as I was sipping my coffee and staring out the window into the blurry morning that comes with hating my glasses but not being ready to put my contacts in, I started categorizing holidays by which was the most stressful. This started last night as I realized I have yet to make New Year's plans, which needs to be approached with care, as New Year's plans for me means finding the best way to sleep through New Year's Eve without being woken up at midnight. Top most stressful holidays (in order):

1. New Year's Eve
2. Halloween
3. Christmas

For the record, my favorite holiday is Thanksgiving. Nothing wrong with eating food all day in a low stress environment. But here's a brief explanation for the ranking above, which prompted me to explore my neurotic tendencies further.

New Year's Eve: By far the most atrocious holiday ever. I do not hate any holiday like I do New Year's Eve. That's right, I hate it. Probably the only holiday I actually hate, instead of "don't care for". First- it arrives well beyond my bedtime. I hate how people suggest that staying up until midnight one night of the year shouldn't be such a big deal for me. Why would you want to start the New Year feeling tired and sick? Isn't New Year's about starting your year off right? A clean slate? Why would I muddy my clean slate with exhaustion, a possible hangover, and the decreased immunity that follows? And the pressure. Oh my god, the social pressure that comes with New Year's Eve gives me a panicked feeling much like when that camera crew from the Chamber of Commerce stopped by a few weeks ago and everyone started pressuring me to do an impromptu interview. Everyone thinks I should do something for New Year's Eve, and my biggest pet peeve is when people think I should do something I don't want to do. I could go on... but just the thought of New Year's Eve makes me angry.

Halloween: While I don't necessarily hate Halloween (see above), I'm not a big fan. And there's a very simple explanation for this: I don't want random people knocking on my door. That's it. It stresses me out. There's a social anxiety component to this, that I'm completely aware of, but don't feel like it's something I, nor my therapist, need to address.

Christmas: I bet a lot of people would put this first, but Christmas in itself is actually a fairly pleasant holiday. One thing that gets me worked up a little is that I always want to find "the perfect gift" for my loved ones. Some people are easy to shop for, others aren't. So I get frustrated when I can't come up with something good. But here's the thing. Immediately after Thanksgiving, one of the local radio stations starts playing 24/7 Christmas music like it's an acceptable thing. All the stores get super packed. If I have to go to Target for coffee filters, I have to navigate the Christmas crowds. Maybe I should go to Vons for coffee filters. Avoid it altogether. I almost want to just order them from Amazon, that way the only person I potentially have to face is the delivery guy, but Amazon gives me a tracking number that sometimes lets me know how many more stops the guy has to make before he gets to my place, which gives me a heads up that someone may be knocking on the door soon and I should probably not be sitting in the bathtub or otherwise indisposed.

This thinking led me to start thinking about the 1 year birthday party for my friend's son that I was invited to. Super nice people. But the party is a pancake-Christmas music-pajama party... with bonus points for rocking out in holiday pajamas.

Umm....I love pancakes.

I just don't know how to approach this kindly. So here it is: I don't love kids. I don't love Christmas music. I don't love being around a bunch of people (67 families invited.... 28 have confirmed they are going). I really don't want to be around a bunch of people in my pajamas (I mean, would I have to wear a bra?).

My coworker (who has 4 kids) tells me that parents don't even like birthday parties for their kids. Like big ones, where you invite the entire school. So he's steered his kids into more meaningful celebrations like camping or Lego Land or something like that. Kudos.

For a couple months I fretted about how I was going to come up with an excuse not to go. Finally, I figured I would just politely decline, sans excuse. I went on to the Facebook page for the event, clicked "Not going" and guess what? It didn't even give me a space to explain why. I'll leave it at that.

Then the other day, I received a group text about a "mellow/relaxed" bridal shower/bachelorette  lunch and/or spa. 7 people on the text. Instant anxiety. This is where I start to realize (I know, even after all the above paragraphs) that I've got issues. And here's where my brain goes: first of all, 7 girls, all together in one location. (OMG!!!). High energy, happy, cheerful girls. (What is my problem?) Spa: this one is tricky. I don't like my fingernails painted, and I like them trimmed to stubs. Nails are out. Pedicures are out as well. My feet are so incredibly sensitive, that during my last pedicure, the lady finally gave up touching them and just let them soak. Also- because I run, my toenails need to be kept at a certain length as well as certain angles. I know what angle each toenail needs to be at in order to not become ingrown and to not cut into the one next to it. I also don't like my toenails painted. I used to. That stopped after nearly losing a few toenails after the Boston Marathon and having to monitor their progress closely over the period of a few weeks.

I wouldn't mind a facial.... by a licensed dermatologist. There are so many things that can go wrong with a facial, that is not easily hid under a hat or a long sleeve shirt. I also am not prepared to spend a few hundred dollars on a facial. I also think it's weird to get group massages. Isn't that like a group orgy? Do you hear the other girls murmuring about how good it feels? Um...?

Which made me suddenly think about how incredibly picky and rigid I am. I like what I like and I don't like what I don't like. This is probably why I don't fight Mike (much) about being so picky about food and microbes and shoes in the house. I get it. I get what it's like to want things a certain way and have people push and prod for you to do something differently. But I know how this makes me come across. I can read everything I just wrote. Not liking all these things others enjoy. It makes me seem difficult and stubborn. Maybe I am.

And this is where it's difficult to ascertain whether it's my anxiety holding me back from these things or if it's that I just don't like doing these things. In response to me not wanting to go to some sort of party, Jen said "I thought your anxiety was getting better." It threw me a bit. I was thinking I just didn't want to go to the party. Jen was thinking it was a great thing to do, but maybe I was just having too much anxiety about it to feel like I would enjoy it. I don't even know how to properly think about that. Big get-togethers sound like a horrible thing to me. Is that because I'm anxious around groups of people or is that because I just don't enjoy big get-togethers. Or do I not enjoy big groups because I'm anxious around big groups?

When I start contemplating that, it feels a lot like trying to grasp dark matter in the book I'm reading about astrophysics by Neal DeGrasse Tyson.

Ativan and Whiskey

I don't normally order beverages on the plane as it's usually a time devoted to my thesis, and you can't fit both a laptop and a drink on the small trays that fold out from the seats. Today I am breathing, because I can feel myself holding my breath intermittently, followed by the need to hyperventilate to replenish the oxygen. So I order a tomato juice and think about how when all this thesis madness is done, I'd like to go back to being the type of person who sips beverages on the plane.

When you take an anxiety class, they teach you how to breathe. As I stood in line on the jet-way, I practiced my breathing. In to the count of 4, hold for 7, out for 8. We were told not to do it more than 4 times as it can make you dizzy. I decide I'm going to do it more than 4 times, just for fun. Just to see what happens. But as I start number 4 I'm already light-headed. So I finish number 4 and turn my attention to the "no food" sign on the jet-way controls. I wondered what malfunction prompted that sign, and I picture a spilled milkshake that causes the jet-way to retract prematurely.

With Santa Anas over the service territory last week, we all worked overtime over the weekend and the first half of the week. After a few 12-14 hour shifts, I had completely pushed my thesis aside, and felt zero guilt. At 2 am on Wednesday, I rolled over in bed and glanced at the wind speed and humidity in our backcountry, felt satisfied that we were okay, and lay my phone back on the nightstand. I closed my eyes to try to get in a little more sleep before my 3 am alarm.

Thesis.

My eyes opened and I stared into the darkness as I realized tomorrow is the day I defend my thesis and I haven't even practiced my presentation. And I'm up. I shower and head off to work. I scan my badge at the entrance to the parking lot, and as the security arm lowers behind me, I glance at my watch. 3:45 am. Geez. It's still the middle of the night.

My nerves escalate throughout the day, and I decide it's okay to take my medication to keep them under control. I know my doctor would agree. I picture not passing my defense, and I'm holding my breath again. During our afternoon Skype meeting, I watch my leg tap rapidly on the screens in front of us and I wonder if anyone else notices. As I excuse myself to catch my flight, the director smiles and gives me a fist bump, my manager gives me the thumbs up, and I wonder how they'll react if I come back with news that I failed my defense.

I take another anti-anxiety pill as I wait at the airport, and anyone watching would think I'm afraid to fly. Somehow, crashing is the least of my worries. I work on my presentation as I wait for my flight.

I have a plan, and put it into action the next day. I take an Ativan two hours before my presentation- to make up for my lack of preparation. I don't remember the logic behind that idea, but it works. It's mostly a blur now, but I managed to make it through a 45 minute presentation with some difficult questions from the audience in the 15 minutes that followed.

Then I retreated to a conference room with my thesis committee to get the real scoop on the status of my thesis. Two committee members would sign me off right then. My advisor would like me to put off graduating for another semester so I can add more content. Again, I forget to breathe. Read Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers. In an instant, I am panicked. I see myself trying to maintain the workload I've been carrying for the past year and despite the Ativan, my heart pounds in my chest and my stomach turns in knots and part of me says to relax: "Don't drink the poison". The other part of me says to fight. To squash the idea before it has a chance to bloom. I keep my expression blank as I've been trained to never show weakness. The 4th committee member agrees that it's not a big deal to defer graduation for another semester. My advisor chimes in "Is it the 300 dollars? If so, I'll pay the $300."

I do not tell him how I've forgotten how to breathe. I do not tell him how this has landed me back in the psychiatry department, and how this is the second time in my life I have needed to be medicated in order to make it through the day and the only other time was due to a traumatic experience. I cannot do this for another 6 months.

I calmly tell him it's not the $300. It's having this thing hanging over my head constantly. Knowing that when I leave work, I have to go home and start work again... on my thesis. It's spending all my time off working. It's affecting my health and well being, and I need to graduate.

He tries keywords, but I catch them for what they are: sharp hooks. And I'm not biting. "Thesis-lite" but I know it's bullshit. He can't believe I put in all that work and it only came out to 55 pages- he expected more. But I know better. I know it's sufficient. "And you really don't have very many references", but I am unfazed and stand my ground. My reference section is over two pages long.

He tries telling me how important this work is. How tons of people are going to be downloading my work and he wants it to be as complete as possible. I maintain eye contact and blink, saying nothing. Normally, this would work on me. I'm driven by guilt. But I've got a year's worth of painful anxiety sitting on my chest, and Ativan and Zoloft pumping through my bloodstream. I will not budge. I reiterate that I need to be done. The two committee members I respect the most are behind me. They think I've done a great job and just need to add a couple more things that I can get done before the November 2nd due date. My advisor finally agrees that if I can get those additions in by the due date, he'll approve my thesis.

We go up to the lab for shots of whiskey. Later at dinner he tells me he's being an asshole because of how important this work is. It's just that so many people are looking forward to reading this. The Ativan and whiskey has gifted me with enough apathy to let him drone on without much of an emotional stir from me.

The next day, Mike and I drive to Paso Robles so I can have a much needed break from everything. I leave my laptop at his place, but see I've got 4 emails from my thesis committee. I leave them for the end of the weekend. Bits of anxiety pop up like a whack-a-mole game, and I hit them each time. One week to get my thesis to my advisor's approval (whack), the formatting that I know grad studies will take issue with (whack), what if he doesn't approve it (whack), how can you take time off like this without working on your thesis (whack). I keep pushing them down all weekend.

As I board my flight back to San Diego, it's all back. The churning in my stomach, the gasping for air. I've been swallowing mouthfuls of salt-water to keep my airway clear and here I go again. One more week. Hammer down for one more week. Exactly what I've been saying for a year now. I'm no longer fooled by the light at the end of the tunnel. One day I'll find myself out in the daylight and wonder how I got there. One day I'll breathe without having to check it off my to-do list. One day I won't need reminding. And I'll be the person who drinks tomato juice on the plane and stares out the window at the clouds. Who comes home from work and stops working. Who breathes without needing to be told how.