Alexandra’s Reverie

Recovery

Recovery can take many forms. It can be something you work at for years, it could be something that you have to deal with over the course of a few hours, or minutes, or days. It can be a lifelong goal.

Today I am recovering. It feels like Day 2. Recovering from a busy workweek, followed by a busy weekend. Recovering from drinking. Recovering from being too rough on my body for the past number of months. About to hit the sauna to help with that. All I want to do right now is sleep. A good sweat will feel good, though. My brain feels like jello. My body is sore and tired, but not all bad. Mainly, I feel like I got hit by a truck. A truck I apparently threw myself in front of.

So this is what it feels like to be back here again. I'm personally recovering from who-the-hell-knows-what anymore. Too many diagnosis, too many twists and turns in my health history. And I don't think the name really matters so much, anyway, as getting to the heart of the issue does. For me, the heart of the issue is that I need to not take my progress for granted. It sometimes takes a big setback like this for me to appreciate how far I've come. Not that I'm set-back in a big way right now – just physically. But it's the kind of dumb hangover setback that I should know better than to have to be dealing with at this stage. But that's okay – I'm testing my boundaries, and I've been knowing for awhile that I needed to get back into cleansing and to take it seriously again. Sometimes you need to feel shitty to remember why you're doing right by yourself, in the first place.

So today I had the day off (thank God) but haven't been able to do more than a few loads of laundry, plus the dishes. Now this – I'm not missing a day anymore. But of course I wanted to do so much more. It's okay if I need a day to recover. I'm okay giving myself that day now. That's all good. But I hate knowing I did this to myself. I hate this particular KIND of rough feeling.

But oh well – the only way to make it worthwhile is to learn from it. And that, I am. So maybe next time I'm tempted to go out and drink heavy or think that I need to experiment – like it's worth the time or the emotional and physical capital – I can just come back and read this entry and realize, no, no I don't. I can skip on that. Hopefully this will be the start of a much deeper, better trend for me. That's the hope, anyway.

Ah, recovery. Aren't we all recovering from something or other? Of course, there's recovery from drugs and alcohol, gambling and sex, etc. Those are the ones easy to spot, or easy to judge or shove into a box and feel other than, better than. I used to see myself that way – different and better from those dealing with some kind of substance abuse. But it's not true, not at all. Turns out I'm just as much an addict as any one in a rehab center or an AA meeting, or anyone who's on their way down to rock bottom but hasn't hit it yet.

What is my addiction? Many things. I need to feel okay – I need permission to be myself. I am addicted to comfort. I get addicted to love and chemical passion and big muscles pressed up against my body, our sweat running together. I am addicted to chocolate and sugar and self-loathing and perfectionism. I am addicted to the word “should” and of not feeling enough for anybody or anything. Imposter syndrome. I am addicted to sunlight and heat and coffee. I am addicted to the idea that I'm never beautiful enough, never sexy enough, never anything enough for the world. Even if someone is telling me to my face, from the heart, that they find you beautiful, the addict in me is telling me that it can't be true – they're just being nice, or putting you on, etc. It simply can't be true. Don't believe it, or the joke's on you.

So many things we can get addicted to in this life, in a world that is creating new “needs” and new ways of fulfilling those needs every day. All I want is to feel that I'm well on the way to recovery. At least KNOW that God has my back, and know that I'm mostly not engaging in stupid self-destructive behavior anymore. That would be a good start.

For today, I'm just looking to recover today. Until I have to go back to work tomorrow, up early and at-em. Before the next party, and next series of choices I'll have to make about it – how much I want to be free of my addictions, and how much I'll give into them.

For now, though, time to hit the sauna. Let's sweat some of this regret out, and start fresh with a new day tomorrow.

Amen.

Here Again

Here I am again. On a Sunday, cool and damp in October, in Wisconsin. Was on the couch most of the day, hungover from the workweek and from a nice night out. Spending time out of the house on a Saturday evening, at a party, feels so taboo these days. And so refreshing. Especially this party – a Halloween party. A lifestyle party. Or, as more commonly thought of, as a swingers' party.

True, it was a swingers' party, but not like you might think. Not people hooking up and getting busy in the joint. Maybe there were some hookups – we had a couple over, but nothing happened, other than some talking. Which is great. We'd much rather build friendships than just hook-up one time. Though hookups can be great, too.

To be honest, I find myself jonesing for the kind of hookup I had 5, 6 years ago now – the kind where the physical and energetic attraction is immediate and potent. Under the lubrication of some alcohol, and in a safe environment where everyone is anonymous and the vibe is right, you for once can just act on your impulse, on your attraction. You are attracted to someone, and you can dance with them. Your husband/boyfriend isn't going to care, or make a scene. His wife/girlfriend isn't going to mind, either – in fact, she's going to come and start coming on to you. You're going to kiss while her husband is dancing on you from behind. It's the stuff of fantasy, and ease. It so rarely happens like that – that you then click as a foursome, and head a few flights down to your hotel room, and get at it. You don't have to be quiet, because your husband is cool with it and his wife is cool with it – they're having their own good time, and are happy to hear you having one, as well. You don't have to worry about what time it is, or that your neighbors are sleeping, because everyone in the hotel is doing the same thing you are, hopefully: hooking up. You hear folks in other rooms fucking and shouting and moaning and it's just delightful. It's frigid outside – New Year's in Chicago – but inside it's hot as can be.

I'm barely out of bed for a second just to get a drink of water when he comes after me again, fully erect and ravenous with desire. It's like he can't even wait for me to come back to the bed – he has to touch me immediately. To be desired so powerfully is definitely the strongest aphrodisiac there is. It's definitely one of the strongest drugs I've even been on – probably the strongest. I would go to such lengths to find that same feeling again in the future – that high of that moment. Being completely liberated and free to let my full passion and voice ring out in the night. Pure exhilaration – doing whatever felt good, and having it be accepted and appreciated by the other partner.

And he was generous in proportions, too – thick and sturdy, a little taller than me, and generous in the other way, too, it was a delicious contrast to my own sexy but compact husband. A different body, different experience. And while his wife was beautiful, fit, and very sexy, I had a different body from her, too – something he could perhaps appreciate. While I was self-conscious about my weight, being a little big or chunky, he said I had a perfect body. What. Not just a nice body, but a perfect body. Shit. My ego took to that like a first hit of cocaine. I was hooked. The positive side of it was his sincerity, and openness, vulnerability. That allowed me to let my guard down, as well. That allowed me to cradle his head in my arms, laying on my chest, as if we were long-lost lovers. A break in between the passion and intensity. Some tender, gentle words spoken – insecurities we both needed soothed, words we each needed so desperately to hear, spoken to each other at just the moment when our souls could take them in, and BELIEVE them. Intimacy as if we had been lovers and best friends for years. Just hours (or less) after meeting each other. I would find out later that he had had his eye on me the night before, at the previous night's party. But I didn't know that at the time. I was busy hooking up with another, gorgeous man.

Hook-up still feels vulgar for those two occasions, as we would go on to meet and make love with these beautiful couples again. We had hoped to be friends over the long-range, but it wasn't meant to be. One couple split up – the husband I've considered texting for a fun hook-up again – the other couple is still together but a few states away, and busy. But other things came into play there, too.

All-in-all, it's amazing the intimacy and comfort you can feel with relative strangers. It's also strange how with others you can be on friendly terms for so long but never break through to that next level, even if the desire and willingness is mostly there.

I guess I'm just enjoying a new level of maturity and growth, but also missing the fireworks of those first highs. I'm chasing the dragon – it will never be what it was like the first time, but that won't stop me from searching for it, longing for it. I literally lost a night of sleep to those lusty thoughts. If it's that powerful of a drug for me, still, then I definitely need to be on my guard.

In two more weeks, there will be another Halloween Lifestyle party. Until then, I can do some thinking and planning. Until then, I can assess those past highs and lows, and thank God I've learned from them, and hopefully am a wiser person now.

But I'd still love that fuck-buddy. I'd go for it in a second, if the opportunity arose. What that tells me about me, I'll have to investigate.

Peace and love.

Sweetie's Day

Today, apparently, is Sweetie's Day. Or Sweetheart's Day. Something like that. It's the day, apparently, when women are supposed to do something nice for their guy – and Valentine's Day, apparently, is the day that guys are supposed to do something for their girl. Like Valentine's Day, it's another Hallmark holiday, and one that U.K. couldn't stand. UK is my husband's uncle who just passed not too long ago. His best friend and sweetheart S. just had us down to EC to do a memorial for him. She picked this day exactly because it is Sweetie's Day, or whatever. Basically, it became their in-joke, and she thought it would be a perfect day to have some closure. Some prayers. Some friends, and some flowers.

As advertised, it was brief – only 20 minutes or so. Being outside in the blustery fall weather, that was kinda nice, but it was also nice that we made it there on time. Otherwise, we would have driven 2 hours and missed the whole thing.

We had a little more time with S. and UK's old friend D. We went to the beach on Lake Michigan where they used to go. Spoke a little more, took some more photos, then parted ways – they, to get some tacos or White Castle, and us, to find the closest diner that served decent food. A place UK would have gone. We found one.

It was decent food. Good service, and packed – as packed as it could be in these COVID times. Every other table taped-off with caution tape like a halloween decoration – which was kind of confusing, since it IS Halloween season, and decorations are all around. You almost see it as a joke when you first see it.

After some bottomless coffee, bacon, and omlette, hash browns, and lots of Louisana hot sauce, it was time for us to hit the road again. No second stops this time. Everyone was busy or away. So we just drove back to Wisconsin. Strange to have such a short trip. Strange to not see UK's house – now up for sale. It will be very, very strange to see someone else eventually living there. It's a sturdy house, and well-built, as many of its day are. But now it is a new neighborhood. A new life. He stayed to the end, though. He didn't take the easy way, that's for sure. In some ways he did. But who am I to judge. He was a tough son-of-a-gun. He survived a lot: cancer, Vietnam, being stabbed, and, for awhile, cirrhosis of the liver. Multiple divorces. The death of his older brother way before his years. He survived a lot. Rest In Peace, Uncle K. May you be enjoying Sweetie's Day up there, and somehow be getting the last laugh :).

As for me, I'm just thankful for the times I had with him, and S. and my husband's brothers, and family. Thankful for the times that were so recent, yet so long ago. How quickly things can change – both for the better, and for the worse. I'm so grateful to have this day – each new memory is something to cherish, each minute with someone you love is precious. Yes, two hours to drive for a 15 minute ceremony is absolutely worth it. Every time. I'm so glad I was able to make it.

If there was only a way to be extra grateful. To give it back. That's the next step. That's what I'm working on now.

Happy Sweetie's Day, everyone. May you cherish your loved ones and be grateful for every minute. And may you tell them every day, every chance you get, how much you love them. Amen.

JCVD

I've been obsessed with Jean-Claude Van Damme this week. Going back and watching those old movies I saw as a kid: Bloodsport, Kickboxer, Double Impact, Universal Soldier. It takes me back to those years as a kid. It also just fascinates me – his story. His rise and fall, then rise again. Redemption.

I can laugh at the “it's so bad it's good” qualities to his films, and all the great 80's qualities. But I'm really just amazed at his beauty – I was too young to appreciate it at the time, just how damn HOT he was. Physical perfection. An outstanding athlete – that mix of grace and power, that you get combining dance with more “masculine” sports, like the martial arts. That same special combo that Patrick Swayze had: power and grace. Masculine and feminine. Sensitive and powerful. All perfectly balanced. Humility and confidence. Heinously good looks, and physical conditioning that you only get from years of hard work and diligent training. No CGI, no stunt doubles, no stand-ins. Just hard work and good genes, and pure charisma flying off the screen.

I actually like JCVD better in interviews, because he's more natural, being himself. Acting was never his strong suit, but I never realized what a charming personality he had – even cute, and sweet. That may have changed over the years, with the fame and the money (which are strong drugs, I'm sure), and definitely after the cocaine came in. Still, I know better than to judge a man like him on that habit alone. On his mistakes alone. I still look in his eyes, in any interview, any movie, and see a beautiful, sensitive soul and a kind man who worked hard to follow his dreams, and achieved them. The world held more than he could have known. Certain doors don't open until you succeed. Like a video game, you aren't even shown the next level until you can beat the one you're on now.

No idea where I'm going with all of this, except JCVD is a former idol of mine – or, at least, hearthrob of mine. It's fascinating to come back to him now and see him a new at this time and age, looking back at him when he was young, and to see how he fell, and what he did to pick himself back up. I have nothing but respect for that. I don't know what he may be been like to live with, but anyone going through hell is already suffering as much as one can suffer. To then be in the public eye while it's happening, and to have millions of people to judge you who never met you – that's a whole other level of torture. Who can understand that? Very few people know what it's like to be that famous. As much as he wanted it, I wouldn't wish it on anyone. I certainly would never want to be that famous.

But he has so much positive on screen, too. Hopefully he can look back at himself on screen – in interviews and in movies – and see when he was starting to slip, or in the thick of it, and show himself some compassion. Hopefully he can forgive himself for the mistakes he's made. Hopefully he feels now that he HAS done something on this earth. I'm sure I'm not the only one to feel he's done a great deal, and he's probably punishing himself too much to think otherwise.

I also understand that he has bi-polar disorder, and didn't have it diagnosed for many years. I can't understand the strain that would place on someone, either. A benefit, to be sure, when you're in show business and need to work 18-hour days, on action films, no less. Or to be an athlete, or a self-promoter. To grind at that early stage of his life. Must have been helpful, when up. But when you're down, what do you do? You just wait for the mojo to come back? JCVD said that if he didn't work out for a few days he would get down – so would he be as amazing as he is now if training wasn't such powerful therapy for him? He seemed to start karate to build his physical strength, but he seemed to find his own therapy early in life. A natural one.

The cure for the rest? Hollywood, life, relationship issues, drug addiction, fame, aging, shitty people? Who knows. God. I can't think of any other possible solution.

So I'll end with this: Jean-Claude Van Damme, I love you, flaws and all. I love your gorgeous body and face when you were young, but I love your beautiful soul and heart even more, and the courage you showed in your 2008 film JCVD, bearing your very soul to the world in that beautiful, heartwrenching monologue. So lovely to hear you speaking in French, too – for as amazing as your English is for learning it late in life (and that's not easy!), I just honor your courage and your generosity in giving your true self to us in that film, and in other ways, all these years. Even if I laugh during some of your films, I am never laughing at you – I am laughing at so many things, but never you. And yes, while I want to objectify you and soak in your perfect body and luscious face for hours, the thing that brings me back to you now is your soul and your life journey. I somehow see myself in you now – or at least, I am touched in how you allow us to see into you, now. You bring yourself to our level, and share what you have to share.

Would I have the courage to do the same, if I were in your shoes? I don't know. I hope so, but I don't know. What is it like to be on the best ride of your life, for years, to have it crash and burn? I don't know. But I do know that your soul was beautiful then, and it is beautiful now. Thanks for letting us share the ride with you, JCVD. Thanks for sharing your true self with us – and with it, I hope it has provided you with some redemption, some sense of confession and relief.

May God be with you, JCVD. Bless you. Amen.

Something in My Eye

It is very windy today. So windy I was literally driving INTO the wind on the bridge on the way to work today. The kind of wind you don't get back East – but you get like crazy out here, in the Midwest. The kind of wind that you have to point into, like a sailboat, because it's literally pushing you sideways. You have to brace yourself.

It's that kind of wind that blew something sharp and grating into my eye this afternoon. Like a bug that won't come out. Something is up in there, and all my right eye can do is weep. Either it scratched my eye, and it's just irritated still, or there's still something up there that I can't see, my husband who peeled my eye back can't see, and it's sure as shit not coming out. Just like a little piece of dirty, scratchy wood up there under my right eyelid. I've tried to flush it out, use eye drops, you name it. Just not coming out.

Very irritating. Sometimes you'd rather just have PAIN than irritation. Not that I'm wishing pain on myself. Not for a second. I have enough of that, anyway – the kind I notice, and the kind I don't.

But it is irritating as hell. An itch you can't scratch. There's something about it, that drives me nuts. You just want to get it out. Just want to get rid of it.

It's like a splinter, that I can see and feel deep under my skin, and I'll gorge into my own skin to get it out, rather than just let it grow out, or take a bath and let it soften and easily come out on its own. No, I have to rip out the sucker, hacking into my skin and taking half my finger with it.

Acne is the same way – especially the nasty, cystic kind I get. Like little balls growing under your skin, you can feel them coming long before anyone else would even notice. But I can't leave them alone. I have to pick and pick and gorge and scrape and hack at those motherfuckers until my skin is all red, raw, and bleeding – from ME. NOW people will notice. Because of my dumbass. NOW I have to wear a shitton of makeup, or even a bandaid. A turtleneck, or thick scarf to hide it. In these days of the ever-present facemask, ain't no thang – just hide that shit with your fashionable mask or scarf thing. Nothing to hide, really. And an irony that this is when my skin has gotten better. Well, also because I'm not wearing a pound of makeup every day. That helps.

But this eye thing. It's really annoying. Because the best thing is to probably just leave it alone – sleep on it, and see how it feels in the morning. The worst thing I can probably do is keep my eyes open, looking at screens, and to keep fucking with it. But the later is what I'm prone to do. The later is how I always approach my problems – a compulsive urge to scratch the itch which must be left unscratched. The temptation to watch the pot of water as it comes to a boil. If something just needs more time and to be left alone, I will then proceed to hound it into submission, until it wilts and succumbs to my bullying. It will give up something – not the answer, or the healing I want, but something. Because you can't keep hitting flesh and not expect blood to flow at some point.

That's something I realized about myself recently – that I'm a bully. About certain things anyway. I get that from my Dad. Not the beat you up, alcohol-type bully. But the kind that will relentlessly hound and beat you verbally until you just succumb from the sheer exhaustion of constantly defending yourself, or trying to not react negatively to it. I do this to my husband. I do this to myself. Don't make eye contact, whatever you do. Just don't. That's when you give the bully – the monster – your soul. It sees it has an entry. It can enter and possess you, only if in your mind.

I want to release that bully within me – whatever it is. That relentless voice that just won't take NO or STOP as an answer. The raving, rabid animal that is coming after you with unnatural speed. No sense, no logic, no purpose other than to destroy you out of some distorted idea that you mean it harm. You could have meant it well – to help, even. But it is coming for you. The craziness, pure black in its eyes, tells you that there is no escape. That is the scariest thing in the world. It will run you off the cliff and go down with you, and not even care. The bully with zero fucks left to give – that's what is the most scary thing in the world.

Sometimes I feel that bully rise up in me. On a day like today, not so much the bully part, but the part that could justify her presence – the “not giving a fuck” attitude. And not the care-free version, that simply isn't concerned with how others see her, but the kind that doesn't even give a fuck as to her own safety and health. When that version pops up, it can get scary. We often can do ourselves so much harm, because we often care so little for ourselves.

The bully in me wants to see me suffer. It wants that one fucking fatal flaw in me – that it can see, but I can't – it wants it OUT. Like an irritating splinter all jagged in the palm of my hand, or a nasty-ass cyst about to break out on my face, or a horrendous cold sore on my lip, swelling up all grotesque-like, I just want that shit OUT. GONE. Get the fuck out of me. A cancer I want to hack out of me. My own disgustingness just swelling, pussing up on my skin for everyone to see, for me to hide and be humiliated by. The bully wants it gone, and it will go to whatever lengths it will take to get rid of it. And boy, does she HATE me. Does she ever think that I'm just the lowest piece of shit for letting that grow inside of me in the first place. To harbor this kind of ugliness, filth, and disease, and not squash it right away; but to let it fester and fester until it growths in strength and manifests as something so disgusting that it causes my whole toenail to break off. Fungus on my nails and feet. Acne on my skin. The f-ing whatever it is in my eye. Shit that needs to be extracted from me, like a splinter. Get it the fuck out. Get the flaw in me out. Exorcise me of my shitty shit, my disease, whatever it is. Please, God, just get it OUT of me. I can't pray it out, I can't pull it out, hack it out, will it out, coax it out, wait for it to come out, or force it. It just won't come out.

The flaw just won't budge. This splinter is permanent. My eye won't stop weeping. It won't stop until the irritant is gone. How will it go, though? Maybe just sleeping on it is enough.

But what about the irritant to my soul – this fatal flaw that needs to be extricated from me? How does THAT leave me? Not sure.

All I know is me focusing on either problem ain't going to help.

Goodnight, then, and Amen.

Crampy and Teary

We all feel a little crampy sometimes. Sometimes it's the literal kind of crampy – the kind us women get, around that time of the month. Mother Nature's way of reminding us that there's no getting out of being a woman. I used to hate that. I don't anymore. It can be a good thing, when you embrace it.

Like yesterday – when I was talking to my spiritual coach, and I just burst out into tears. Well, I wanted to burst into tears. It didn't happen until we were off the phone. She could tell something was off, though – I just didn't want to get into just then, as we were running out of time. But she recommended I journal about it, and so I did. After the call.

I had a good cry about it. After the call. I figured out some things, all the call. Always easier to explore my real feelings in a vacuum, apart from humans, where I feel safe. In the past it used to be in a forest, by a brook, or by a river. Laying on the grass or a bed of pine needles, or a cold slab of granite. Those were the places I could let it out. Not around people.

But the good thing about being crampy and teary is that all those emotions are so close to the surface – they're right there, you can't avoid them. That, too, used to be a nuisance. Worse, it was a weakness. But the real weakness is not knowing what your weakness is – it's having a parasite eat you from the inside out and all the while you're acting like nothing is happening, nothing is wrong.

That's weakness. It's also just stupid.

Now, I don't exactly embrace my emotions all the time – though I'm getting better at it – but I am getting better at letting them flow where and how they need to. Like a bathtub overfilling, I let those emotions just flow out of the tub, and spill where they need to spill. There may be a little cleanup involved, but nothing close to the mess I'd have if I tried to hold all that water in and ended up with bust pipes or a ruined floor.

Now I feel them welling up, and if they're right there, I let them spill over. Tell me what I'm feeling. I'm feeling it, anyway. It's happening to me, anyway. So show me – show your face. Show me what's happening to me, for real. The hidden inner world that feels a millions miles away from my outer world, my conscious world, and all the BS stories I tell myself, about myself.

It happened at a great time, too – that's exactly the work I'm supposed to be doing with my spiritual coach, anyway. Figure that shit out. Remove those blocks, face those demons head-on, and slay those dragons. First, you have to find them, identify them.

So this – this teary episode – was real. It tapped into an old monster in me. Perhaps the oldest, strongest. The kraken, deep in my soul. This one huge, ugly, terrifying bastard that has always kept me afraid of myself, and inner depths, and of exploring all there is to explore within the vast ocean of my own infinite soul.

This Kraken is the idea that I'm broken, and always have been. That I always needed to fix myself – and save my parents from having to do it. Saving them from the mess that is me. Figure out how to patch myself up on my own, or go down trying. You're on your own, do or die.

The thing is, the more I tried to fix myself, the more entangled with this creature I became, and the more it took me down. The more fucked up I got. It was then just my personality being weird, or the way I fucking colored in my peaches and blueberries in kindergarten, then scratched off the edges (which was fucking brilliant, by the way), which bitchy kindergarten teachers didn't like; it wasn't just shit like that any more. Now it was physical shit – my knees always aching, shin splints, this and that.

The more I tried to fix myself, the more fucked-up I got.

And that compounded – I just got more and more obsessed with fixing myself, and more and more entangled with the Kraken, and had more and more problems. It just got worse and worse. All along, I'm just trying to fix myself – this mess that I was born as, apparently. But the more I tried, the worse I got.

Here I am, 40 years old, still fighting this Kraken. Just as I think I've slayed it, and it's never coming back, up it rears its ugly head in out of the dark, murky waters of my soul. There it is, grinning at me and strong as ever, after all these years.

That can definitely get me teary. Fucking Kraken. You bastard. I was doing so well.

Maybe I don't need to be fixed. Hard to believe, but maybe it's true. That may be the only way to get that fucker out of my life. We'll see.

For now, though, I'm giving into my crampy and teary time – doing some good stuff like this writing, and getting some rest. But also eating a shitton of chocolate and feeling sorry for myself.

So yeah. It's that time of the month – the time I'm teary and crampy. It's also when my Kraken is swimming dangerously close to the surface. At least I know the bastard is there. At least I can see and identify what it is I'm dealing with. It's not hypersensitivity – it's emotional vigilance. And it will one day save my life (if it hasn't already).

More chocolate. Less Kraken.

No Time To Write

Well, I had time – but I didn't GIVE myself the time to actually do it. Maybe I still will. But for now, I need to write in a birthday card, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, since I'm about to host a birthday party. So there you go.

Mea cupla. Mea maxima culpa.

About 3 minutes of writing today, instead of 15 minutes. Let it be recorded.

Hasta manana. Or later tonight. :)

Friday

In some ways, it's a perfect day – got some decent sleep, felt better at work today (well, at least my brain was working), got some treats after work, got a birthday gift for a friend, it was a beautiful day – temperatures in the 70's, with sunny skies and blazing colors. Delicious treats. Scarf two of them down. So much for extended fasting. Get home, get some sunbathing in (in October), next to my hot, naked husband, and then we go out to one of our favorite restaurants to eat some delicious wings outside. Have our pup with us. Oh, I'm drinking an Old Fashioned, as well. Then a nice walk as the sun is starting to set – but the air still warm and soft on my bare arms, and toes, out of the south. Get to the yacht club – go inside, see some friends and chat a bit, then head out. Have a nice walk to another bar with outdoor patio and nice ambience, but no dogs allowed, so we move on to our own neighborhood, to our own neighborhood tiki bar. That allows dogs – definitely our cute, friendly, well-behaved dog. Saw more friends there, had a drink, and bought one more to go – in a little bag. A Blue Hawaiian. Poured it into a glass full of ice. Now sipping on it at home. My first “to go” cocktail. Maybe it was a thing before COVID, but I don't think so. God bless Wisconsin, is all I can say. Sure, I have rum here at the house, but no one makes cocktails like Nick does. Yummy.

So it's been a beautiful day. No sauna. No hottub (will get plenty of that tomorrow), but lots of good outdoor time, on a gorgeous fall day. Good time with loved ones and good friends. Antia even saw her friends – furry and human. A beautiful day all-around. Thank you Jesus. I am blessed, and I know this.

In fact, I was just coming out of the specialty bakery where I get all my premium goodies, when I saw the parking meter lady just about to write me a ticket. I walked around to the side of my car, unlocked the door, and was just thinking of what to say (all while playing dumb, of course), when she looked at me, sighed, and walked away. I was relieved. I was about to offer her one of my baked goods. I don't know if I should have done that, or not. In any case, I certainly appreciated it, and didn't mean to just leave without thanking her or saying “I'm sorry.” She was just doing her job, and I was a pain in the ass. I get it. I wished I hadn't been. I don't want my joy to come at the expense of another. In any case, I just want to say I'm sorry, and thank you for cutting me a break. We all need it. Sorry for being a pain in your ass.

So all around it's been a gorgeous day. It's not over, but it nearly is. I'm just writing this now to keep to my new routine of 15 minutes of writing a day. There's no reason I can't do this every day. Today, after a LONG ass week and LONG day, and some drinks, I'm ready to just lay on the couch and crash out. I'm still finishing my to-go Blue Hawaiian. But I'm going to get this 15 minutes in. It can be gibberish, that's ok. I just need to do it. I don't want to renege on my commitments any more, especially to myself.

Ok, that's 15 minutes. Good. I'm about to fall asleep. But I did it.

Thank you, Angels, for looking after me today. Thank you for granting me three normal activities in one beautiful day. Thank you for helping me help support local businesses. Thank you for blessing me with the love and companionship of great people.

With that, I will say goodnight. Good night. And cheers!

5 More Minutes

To complete my writing for today. So I'm just writing to fill time, but I can say that I'm enjoying some pleasant heaviness in my body – it means I'll sleep well tonight, even if I don't sleep enough. Not that I'm trying to put that out there, but you know.

Fall is here. The air outside is chilly, but it's a toasty 71 degrees inside. It's as warm as I'll feel outside of the sauna and within 4 walls all fall and winter long, most likely. I hope I'm wrong. I hope I can get this 'ol Bunson burner – this Thyroid – to start kickin' again. That would be nice. Bring my body temperature up from 97 to 98 on the regular. Even 96 degrees sometimes. One degree can make a huge difference – just ask the earth. 2 is huge.

The five minutes are now filled. Just in time for the goosebumps to appear on my forearm. How fitting.

Enjoy your properly-functioning thyroid. Just sayin'.

Green Snot and Ham

Green snot. That's what I was blowing out of my nose the other day. In my dream. Into a tissue. I saw it, and winched a little – part repulsed, part fascinated, and part frustrated. Oh no. Not this again.

You see, green snot was the color I was blowing out of my nose when I got COVID for the first time. This was back in February, 2020, before it was officially a thing in the U.S. At least, not in my state.

I hadn't remembered having green snot in a REALLY long time before that. I looked up what it meant, and basically, it meant that your body and immune system are working like hell to fight off something.

And I guess they were.

But like I said, THIS was a dream. In that dream, I was sitting next to a woman who was some kind of mentor or authority figure, someone I knew well, and respected, looked up to. She was nodding at me and saying, “You know what it is, Rachel,” or something like that. Like I was playing dumb but really knew what was going on – I couldn't fool her. I woke up after that, and felt out of it the whole day. And pretty well strange the next day, too. I think that brings us to today.

Today I don't feel 100%, it's true. My body IS fighting something, it's true. But then again, it always is. So my dream, and my subconscious, were right. I'm just not sure exactly what the angle was this time. Should I be doing more for my body – is that the idea?

I kinda met it half-way: I did the Wim Hof breathing exercises, but had coffee. I did some yoga, but had a mocha and some cookies. I drank lots of water and herbal tea, went to church, and sat in the sauna for an hour at 140 degrees. Drank a shitton more water. Ate a salad for dinner, but had some cheese in there (something I know I should avoid, especially as it makes me break out). Also, had a glass and a half of wine, breaking out the Bota Box. Now I'll feel the need to finish it, if that hottub party on Saturday doesn't drain it for me.

So I did listen to my body, but I also listened to my wants and desires. Not sure if that was wise. However, the biggest measure of health for me on a day like today is the fact that I'm fairly light of spirit, and not stressing out about my choices – I'm just making them and dealing with it. I'm evening getting to my writing today – the very last thing before bed – so I'm KILLING IT.

I did listen to my body, and my subconscious, but I am feeling out of sorts. I also feel ok. I also have some burning in my chest I don't want to acknowledge. But I'm feeling okay. No green snot yet. The ham may come, yet.