From the yearly archives: 2012

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Ambition is a slippery slope for me. When my over-active imagination collides with my perfectionist tendencies to create any kind of objective, I usually end up conceptualizing an insurmountable goal and then emotionally pummeling myself for not achieving it. Because there’s nothing quite like being bested by your own imagination.

Anyway, I am never more at risk for being slaughtered by my own ambition than when it comes to self improvement. For me, self improvement is endlessly cyclical–like a sad, creaky hamster wheel.

I am always somewhere on this cycle. In fact, just two weeks ago, I happened to be at the “attack goals with frenetic vigor” place. It was at that time that I decided to go running for the first time in weeks and then perform the calisthenics equivalent of bench pressing my entire, fully furnished house. In short: I made the fatal mistake of trying too hard (Let this be a lesson to you, kids.)

While it will not surprise you to learn that I injured myself along the way, it certainly shocked the shit out of me. I had forgotten one of the most important lessons of self improvement: Exercise does not like to be attacked with full force after weeks of half-assed efforts. Exercise does not appreciate being neglected. Exercise will cut you.

As a result of my dangerously enthusiastic workout routine, I pulled probably every muscle in my back and embarked on an entirely new journey I like to call: getting high-fived in the face by pain. This journey always walks me through the same three steps.

The first step is pretty benign:

(If at this moment, you’re like ‘Wait. The pain is talking to you? I think that’s schizophrenia.’ Shut up, because no, it’s not. And also, in my defense, this is just a dramatization.)

So after a few days of passively observing the pain in its new habitat (my entire, fucking torso), I progressed to the obvious next step:

I finally broke down and went to see the doctor last week, and GUESS WHAT!?! It’s not cancer (probably. I mean, not yet?) I have in fact pulled a few muscles, and so I’m taking it easy and waiting patiently (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA) for them to heal.

Which brings me to the third and final stage of any illness or injury: the part where you forget what not having the illness or injury feels like and settle into an uncomfortable but hopefully-not-lasting friendship.

But the good news is that getting high-fived in the face by pain has ushered me safely into my favorite stage of the self improvement cycle: the “eat Cheetos in yoga pants” stage. AND since I am physically unable to lift my own TV remote, it will be a long time before I’m stupid enough to attempt any kind of self improvement efforts again. At least a few weeks anyway.

 

 

So, Saturday is my five-year wedding anniversary. Which, in my opinion, is kind of a big deal. I’ve been married to myself for twenty-something years now, and I find the fact that Drew made it five pretty goddamn impressive.

You see, I’m kind of an asshole.

Don’t worry. I don’t think Drew’s noticed yet, which is strange since the signs of my asshole-ery pop up all the time.

Take, for example, the time our new couch came in, and the delivery guy left the couch tethered to a shipping crate in our garage. When I called Drew at work, he was all, “Great, I’ll help you move it when I get home.”

What would a normal person do? I couldn’t tell you, but I assume it’s something close to: wait for a helping hand. Me? I promptly hung up the phone to begin spending hours fighting with the shipping packaging and then pushing/slamming/almost breaking/pulling the new couch into place.

I was partly motivated by the idea of Drew coming home, sitting down to relax on our new awesome couch and being all “You risked your life to get this thing indoors?!? You’re like a mother fucking miracle wizard made of glitter.” But I think I mostly did it because I’m an asshole.

I’m not just helpful to the point of risking my own safety for needless accolade; I also have terrible, uncompromising taste in movies!

I know, right?

Not to mention the fact that I am easily emotionally manipulated by sad music and just about everything else (see: puppies, rainbows, babies, commercials with old people in them, and about 40 bazillion other things), and whenever I read an impractically romantic book (see: Twilight), it’s guaranteed to ruin Drew’s weekend.

Yup.

So, congratulations to Drew for surviving these and so many other personality quirks. (Note: “Personality quirks” is a term often used by assholes to describe or attempt to rationalize their stupid behavior.)

And to everyone who isn’t Drew: You guys are the real winners here.

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