Unlike the A-Team, I can't seem to make this plan come together

I love birthdays. I think it’s a wonderful opportunity to celebrate the lives of others… and to be celebrated of course. Everyone needs to feel special at least one day of the year.

Historically, I’ve had a close group of women friends who made it a point to get together to mark each other’s special occasion with dinner, drinks, funny cards, and great camaraderie. Then, as each of us reached our 40th, we would get a special ring. Not all of the group have reached that milestone yet but, once we do, I’m planning to nominate we change our unofficial name from the Friday Night Girls to the Fellowship of the Ring :-)  I know, I’m a geek.

Reaching even further back beyond what feels like half a lifetime of the FNG fellowship, there’s the unique bond I’ve always shared with my sister (aka C.B.). Our family is weird. For many reasons, but one of the best is that she and I have the same birthday a year apart. (My mother’s is the day after… I know, weird). All my life I’ve shared birthday celebrations with my sister. If it made for fewer gifts for each of us, I don’t think either of us ever cared even when we were young and selfish. We’ve always felt like odd sort of twins, despite my being the older sister and taking massive pride (and advantage) of that fact, and have hung on to our family birthday traditions as much as we can as we’ve aged and moved away… and away… and away.

So, birthdays have always been a good time for me. Well, almost always. I can only remember one year that I hated it. Ahhh, 27. Drama, emotional angst, wallowing in self-pity. Picture this dear reader: me lying flat on my back on my living room carpet with a huge glass of red wine in my hand and music blasting from the stereo loud enough to bring my upstairs neighbor down to bang on my door.

Why the patheticness? It had hit me that The Plan was shot. Girls, you know the plan! Most of us had something just like it. I was to have met Prince Charming sometime in the my early 20’s (despite the distractions of grad school and establishing myself professionally), married Mr. Right, and had a couple of years luxuriating in our marital bliss before proceeding to have our 2-3 children all before I turned 30. This was so all the kiddies would be grown and gone before I got “too old”.

Hitting 27 with no man in sight crushed that plan like a ton of bricks – a growing career, supportive family, great women friends and a couple of good male friends as well to feed my need didn’t count. It was clear that I would have to re-imagine my future, my goals, my self-image. Thus the pity party.

Thankfully I was able to scrape myself together well enough that future birthdays were again causes for celebration rather than self-pity. And, as my new picture of myself solidified, my confidence grew. So much that I hit 40 last year with a freight train’s worth of satisfaction and conviction that the 40’s were going to be My Decade. After all, hadn’t I made a new life for myself? I’d left my job, my home, my friends and family and hauled myself all the way overseas in search of adventure. I was high on a sense of accomplishment.

Now with a month left till 41, I find myself with the urge to pour a large tumbler of something alcoholic and play Linkin Park as loud as I can. Not so much out of self-pity as of sober realization that no matter how young I feel inside or look on the outside, I’m about to fall over the crest into the second half of my life. Right now that feels more like a downhill slide – single, alone, making a new life for myself at a time when it feels like everyone else… isn’t.

Ok, so there’s some self-pity there. The truth is 41 is the suck. I think I’m just going to have to wallow here for a bit before strapping on my boots, sucking it up, and coming up with The Plan 3.0.

Cat Fancy

Image by Harshad Sharma via Flickr

I had one of those wonderfully random conversations during tea break today.  Somehow, one of my coworkers got onto the topic of how much she hates cats.  For oh so many reasons including: their tendency to slink around your feet, brush you with their tails, and how they'll quietly sneak up on you (like a little furry, evil serial killer).  Not to mention the "fact" that the minute their loving humans breathe their last breath, the little carnivores immediately start munching on their owner's meaty parts. 

This was said in such a tone of horrified distaste and atavistic terror that the cat lovers at the table passed right by insult and dissolved into hysterical laughter.

But the best visual came when she recounted a recent news story she'd seen in which an American woman (it's always an American in these stories) was filmed breast feeding her cat!  EWWWWW!

All I can say is, she has a lot of trust in our maturity if she doesn't expect months of teasing and taking the piss to come out of this.  You can only give people so much material before they have to use it against you :-)

Invitation Accepted

So, yes, I finally did turn in the guest post kindly requested by another fave blogger of mine, Niamh Griffin of Writer on the Way Home, and I even beat my deadline! :-)

I'm kind of giddy about the whole thing. It's just so cool that someone likes my writing enough to want more than what I naturally sputter out on my own site.

It's up today, so head on over and check it out. And tell me what you think - comments are a blogger's best friend!

Fine, Truly Fine

You know it when you have one of those days. Before, you were languishing in the doldrums of "sorta okay" and "grand". Nothing too drastically out of place. Except for the persistent doubts about "do I truly know what I'm doing?" and "am I really helping anybody?"

One of the major perils of being a psychologist, I guess any similar health profession, is the self-questioning, the self-doubt. And the comparing. Even when you know the TV and the literary and the memoir psychologists don't reflect the reality of the day in, day out drudgery that can be your professional life, it's still hard to convince yourself a lot of the times that somebody else, anybody else, couldn't do a heck of a lot better.

And even though you know, after almost 15 years doing this, that this is just part of the rhythm of the ups and downs of what you do, you still get caught up in it.

People come to you in pain, expecting that you have all the answers, and get pissed or sad or hopeless when you don't spoon feed the miracle cure to them. You know this is how things work. You know it.

Then, when you least expect it, you have that day. When all the floundering you've been doing, trying to figure out what the heck your next step is, resolves into something resembling clarity and you remember that there actually is some substance to the facade you play out every day. The day that client walks in and you have that session where, even though you're only at the start of things, magic happens. You click. He or she connects. You're riding the flow of the emotional energy between you and you can almost see them lifted up. And it's a beautiful thing - enlightening, emotional, spiritual even.

That was today. It wasn't the first time and it won't be the last, but I needed it... to remind me why I do this and that it's okay to keep on doing this. Today was beautiful even in the midst of its flaws. A fine blessing indeed.

(Sort of) Wild At Heart

My friend L.K. from NC made a teasing comment today about how "wild" I've gotten over here in Ireland. I know she was (mostly) joking, but the fact is that there is a kernel of truth in what she said. There's something about having made such an earth shattering (to me) life change that makes it that much easier to try things and contemplate possibilities that would never have fit with my old self.

The pre-Ireland, pre-blogger me was caught in a rut of her own making, and she knew it. I could have stayed in my mostly comfortable, largely happy life and kept on doing the same things on and on. Eventually, my sense of being boxed in and living inside skin just a size too small may have faded away and left me, and that probably would have been ok. But, you know what? I like doing more than ok. I like finding myself chancing things that I would have pooh poohed or talked myself out of (I'm a great overintellectualizer) or just been too darn scared to imagine before. The box, the limits, I'd created for myself and talked myself into accepting was very familiar and very comfortable.

This? Isn't comfortable. Not at all. And sometimes I really feel it. I miss my townhouse, family, friends and the other great things that surrounded me in Raleigh. I find myself flashing to the most random images sometimes... being in my car driving down the highway at 74 mph (if you keep it less than 10 under the speed limit, the cops probably won't stop you); meeting up with the Friday Night Girls for Maker's Mark and random conversations about bodily functions; spending a quiet Friday night till late in Barnes & Noble with a truckload of books and something sweet from their cafe (a bookstore open till 11 pm!); long, reflective conversations with E.J.; the final moments of the Maundy Thursday church service before Easter; getting my semi-regular massage from John (best hands ever!) while Narada-ish muzak plays in the background. But, the happy truth is that I'm still glad I made the move. On the face of it, my life here is pretty normal, but just being forced out of my routine and forced to examine my assumptions and beliefs about myself has been incredibly liberating.

So yeah, pre-Ireland me would never have put her thoughts out on the web for anyone to see, hosted strangers in her house, chanced making friends online, flirted madly via text, or considered getting inked. Considering my previous comfort zone, that is pretty darn wild. But then, as I face the last few weeks before the big 4-0, I'm thrilled I took the chance to see what life could be like outside the box.

Body Disorientation

I'm in the strange situation of being slightly weirded out by my own body. I never thought getting in shape would have a dark side, but it does! For as long as I can remember clearly, basically the last 15 years, I've been on the soft side of curvy. Sometimes softer than others :-) Except for a few months around my sister's wedding in 2000 when I killed myself to slim down so I wouldn't be haunted by intolerable pictures forever, I've ranged from feeling slightly dissatisfied to majorly frustrated by my weight. As I got older, especially after passing 35, it just got harder and harder to stay as fit as I'd like.

Not so different from most other women these days, I guess.


What's so strange now is that, having finally committed to a regular and intense enough exercise routine and being cut off from America's endless supply of empty and unnecessary calories, I'm finally getting into the shape I've always wanted and it's freaking me the heck out! My arms do not look like this; you can see the muscles moving under the skin, like snakes in the shadows. I have indentations in places I didn't realize had muscles, and where did my hips go? I find myself watching myself in the mirror and not recognizing myself.

The good news is that my stamina has gone through the roof and I feel much healthier (though my high blood pressure isn't going away. Thanks mom for those genes!). I'm having to buy a whole new wardrobe (which is actually not as fun as it sounds when clothes are as expensive as they are here) and I'm definitely getting more male attention. But, I still haven't accepted that this is me yet and I don't know if and when I will.

Before the problem was that my outside didn't always match how I imagined myself inside. That's still the problem, only now I'm in the position of my head having to catch up with my body.

Blue Tsunami

We now take an unscheduled break from the usual reflections on the pleasures of life in Cork for some lamentably (and possibly soon-to-be regretted) uncensored and disjointed ranting. Ya'll are just going to have to bear with me....

Today felt like a tidal wave of emotion just rose up, crashed through my wall of defenses, leaving it in soggy ruins, and sucked me under. I'm struggling to breathe the best way I know how by doing what I do best, self-analyzing the heck out of myself. (And, since you're my "captive" audience, you're stuck listening to me!) Intellectualization.... Jonathan, my old therapist, as well as some of you other "privileged" ones will recognize that as my stock in trade. But hey, at least I'm doing something rather than curled in the a fetal ball of soggy distress the way I really wish I could be.

Here's the truth: I'm sick. Tired. In withdrawal after so much family time. Worried to moderately panicked. Missing you all so much I could scream. And so pissed off at myself for so many reasons, including being totally ineffectual at work the last could of days, I can't breathe!

It all came to a head during spinning class today. 45 mins of pure physical activity that, while clearing enough head space so I could start listening to myself, also wasn't enough to let me escape from myself. The brain would just not shut off. No matter what tried and true self-hypnosis or breathing technique I used, could just not find the zone. The result? I totally phoned it in. No endorphins. No sense of accomplishment. Just me going round and round in circles in my head, lambasting myself and mentally yelling at GG. Until the perfect song came on! This is either an example of perfect, universe-imposed synchronicity or I made it all up. But I could swear (hah!) the electronic dance mix went like this: Melody = "F--- the F--- of It"; Chorus = "F--- This". That's it. The Whole Song. Perfect.

Just to make it a little less perfect though, as I'm driving home, desperately trying to pay attention to the road and not mess up big-time before my Driver Theory Test exam tomorrow morning, who should try calling(!!) me? GG. I didn't pick up and, since I was driving (and pissed off as hell at him), I let it go to voicemail. Haven't listened to it yet. Is there any reason to? Is ignoring him all during class and being the first one out the door the only way to get him to step up? Really? Is he really that lame?

I need a drink. Several drinks. Or a massage. A massage while drinking? No, really all I need is for someone who gives a hoot about me to give me a hug and let me calm down long enough to squeeze out a few tears and start venting. But no, I had to move eons away from everyone who cares about me. Why am I over here? So far away from my friends we all feel reluctant to pick up the phone and "bother" each other.

Almost the capper: I'm diverted via the hell that is the new Douglas roundabout construction fiasco and, as I'm rounding the other roundabout (45 secs from home), I pull out in front of a motorcycle Garda, who proceeds to put on his indicator and follow me to the gates of my apartment complex before going merrily on his little way. Now that would have been the perfect end to a perfect day.

Disclaimer: Don't worry mom, sis, other concerned readers, I'm really not as despondent as I sound here. I'm actually doing well. I'm blessed in so many ways, I know that. This is just the closest to therapy and immediate access venting to you all as I can get right now. If I had the $25 per person you all deserve for listening to me here ($150 per therapy hour; I figure it took you 5-10 mins), I'd definitely send it to you. Sublimation, thy name is blogging!

The ostrich system

I'm outing myself, but I have to admit something that those people who really, really know me well (as in know my dark side) have already figured out, which is that my default method of coping with stuff that I feel totally helpless, hopeless and/or inadequate about is by sticking my head in the sand and not picking it up till the world gives me a kick in the ass and I have no choice but to deal. This isn't the hating confrontation issue, another wonderful trait of mine that I'm sure I'll get to later. No, this is more the "maybe if I ignore it, the world will end I won't have to deal with it at all" strategy that I always tell myself I'm going to be mature enough to stop using. But, I never do.

The most recent example of this is my as yet refusal to start trying to figure out what I'm going to do with my cat once I move. Meesha is a neurotic, slightly manic-depressive tortoiseshell beauty who I alternately grumble at and attack with kisses because she can be just the sweetest most loving thing ever! [I'd insert a picture of my sweetie here if they weren't all taken with the film camera and so, as yet, not available digitally] And whoa betide the family, friend or acquaintance who dares to comment on her minor social skill deficits or tendency to nip when playing. This is my baby and I'll defend her till death! She may be "slightly" neurotic, but she's my neurotic.

OK, so back to my own neurotic-induced crisis. The thing is that, before I can bring Meesha over to Ireland, she has to go through a 6 month process here of microchipping, vaccines, tests, then a 6-month wait to make sure that she's not rabies infected. What that means is that she's going to have to stay with someone here while I'm getting settled in Ireland. Unfortunately, my cousin who I'd drafted to do this, had the nerve to somehow convince her daughter to come down with asthma! Which means, no free cat sitting. The nice thing about family is that you can browbeat them into doing all sorts of things. The bad thing is that you sort of have to take their word for it when they say their child could die! Unfortunately, substitute cat sitters who are pet-less (Meesha does not play well with others) are short among my pet-loving, baby-producing friends.

I should have already started researching my other options - tap into my other social networks, actually pay someone to foster her, try to convince my mother in Miami to take her? - but instead have apparently been just hoping that the right answer would appear out of the blue and I'd be rescued from actually having to deal with this myself. Unfortunately, I'm not the type of girl who gets visited by the chivalrous knight who's just begging to ride me off into the sunset. Maybe I should just pretend I'm a mature, independent-minded adult and actually try to deal with this like a manageable problem that has real solutions? Shrink, heal thyself! The sand in the hair look is just not a good one on you.