Melancholia

Sometimes I wonder why I'm so predisposed to being angry, sad, and bitter all of the time, since, generally, I'm doing okay for myself. I mean, I can only use my dad's death as viable excuse for so long, you know?

I'm in a general malaise right now. (I hate writing about it on my blog, but bear with me.) I don't think it's one thing that's making me feel like things are such shit, but rather the last four months of hell that have been home life and work life. After I broke up with John I finally made myself go into therapy, thinking that the break-up (and my general failures with dating in general) were a major part of what's bringing me down. I mean, I think that lately, most of my rage and anger comes out of romantic disappointment; why else would I still want to scratch someone's fucking eyes out every time I see them (yes, them, because it's plural)?

With my dad's illness and death, one would think that I spend most of my therapy talking about grief, etc. The truth is, I've spent more hours talking about my job that anything else. I'm not going to go into great detail because that's uncouth and such, but something must be said for spending eight hours a day feeling ten times more miserable than you do anywhere else, and on top of that feeling like you're an idiot at the same time. I told John today that I was in the mood to go cry a bathroom stall somewhere, and he replied, "You could work at the New York Times building where they have 'crying cubbies!'" But even before I could respond, he said, "But then it's expected that you would be crying."

I don't even know if therapy (or, as I call it, "my five-hundred-dollar deductible") is doing me any good, but I continue to go because it's worth a shot, right? Of course, here's the shitty thing: I have to work because I need the insurance, since therapy isn't affordable without it (especially since it's just now covering it). So basically, I need to work for the therapy, and I need the therapy to make it to work. Such is the irony of the twenty-something, depressive, professional lifestyle.

I don't think exclusively listening to Exile in Guyville is conducive to a good mood either, but I'm too excited for next week to examine that.

Another year of keeping my tank tops tucked away.

The week of Spring that we get in Chicago is already over, which means that Summer is here! (Otherwise known as Arm Issues Season.) It will now be constantly sizzling and muggy outside and my forehead and underarms will not be dry until September. Sexy, right?

Lethal injections of G&T.

As I said before, I had this charming little informal interview for an admissions counselor position in my office, which was my one shot at some sort of career path at my current place of employment. I was sure it went well, and expected to be selected for the formal interview process, especially since I already work there and have many, many great references on my side. When I didn't hear back about the interview by Thursday, I emailed my co-worker - yes, she's technically my co-worker, even though she's one of those sweet gals on the other side of the office who hadn't spoken to me in a year and a half until I came into her office to grovel for a job - to see what the status was. When I got home yesterday, I received a form email regretting to inform me that I had not been selected for the position.

Now, I had already decided that if this happened I'd take it as a sign from Whoever that I am absolutely worthless because I can't even get a promotion in my own office. So I did what I usually do in these times of distress: I called my parents. After a brief chit-chat about the weather (an exchange that I had had earlier in the day with my father, who will ask me, "How are things in Chicago?" even if I call him every five minutes), I broke the news. My dad became quiet and apologized, and I could hear my mom in the background asking questions because she knew what was wrong. After all, it was Friday afternoon, which is the best time to break someone's hopes and dreams of becoming an admissions counselor. (Not only did she inform me that I am too mediocre for such a mediocrity-laden job, the woman decided it was best to ruin my weekend, as well.) My mom tried to comfort me in our family's typical fashion, which is to figure out what is wrong with ME, as opposed to the idea that there really were other qualified applicants. "Well, you know, I sent you that article about how employers will Google the people they interview and look for their blogs," she said. I snapped and said that I KNOW who is reading my blog, and no one has Googled my name for months. I really wanted to say that I doubted the woman was concerned about her large labia and that's how she stumbled on my blog. Or perhaps she was looking for pictures of "pug eating donut." I suppose it's possible.

After my phone-breakdown, where I cried and said "fuck" a few times, which I suppose was taken without any scolding on my parents' part because, hey, I'm fucking miserable right now!, I decided that my next plan of action was to smoke a lot of cigarettes and get ridiculously, ridiculously drunk, natch. I ate a few spoonfuls of cookie dough and ate some lasagna to ensure no pass-outs, and I left with fifty dollars burning a hole in my wallet. Sometimes I like to punish myself by becoming dangerously close to overdrawing my account AND destroying my body at the same time. I'm either a masochist, or just a self-loathing English major. I took "Film Adaptations" instead of accounting. I get what I deserve.

To make a long story short, if only because recounting how much gin I took in before deciding that switching to beer was safer, cheaper, and just made sense would be depressing to write (and read, I'm sure), I succeeded in my plan to get all drunky-pants. So drunky-pants, in fact, that when I realized that I was having trouble standing up, I searched in vain for an open seat and resorted to sitting on a metal trashcan. And I'm sure it was filled with trash, although I checked the seat of my pants this morning and it appears it's all clean! And my ass isn't too sore from trying to balance myself on a fucking metal trashcan.

The rest of the night is rather hazy, although I think the friend I was with had enough sense to realize that if I was willing to sit in filth, it was probably time to call me a cab. And when I got back to my neighborhood, I experienced a new level of public puking, an activity in which I had not yet partaken. And I passed out in my clothes with my head next to my laptop and all of my lights left on.

Much to my surprise, I do not feel so much better about life.

The World's Pickiest Eater.

Nearly everyone who knows me personally (meaning, those of you who read my blog because I told you to, instead of happening upon it in a Google image search for "world's largest dog," which, by the way, is happening really frequently lately - was there just a decision made in the large dog debate? Seriously, MASTIFFS OR GREAT DANES?! I MUST KNOW!) (Sorry, I rambled again, I'm starting over.)

Uh. NEARLY EVERYONE WHO KNOWS ME PERSONALLY KNOWS that I'm a really picky eater. I always have been. My eating habits seem to be without pattern or reason; there are a LOT of foods that I don't like, and a few that I like a lot. For most of my life I've been able to live off of hamburgers, pizza (pepperoni only, please), pasta, and, for the most part, chicken. There are plenty of "normal" foods I absolutely won't eat: most fruits, cooked vegetables, cheesy foods, etc. I've tried to come up with why I have this problem, and most of it comes down to the consistency and texture of foods, and how they feel in my mouth.

I've become pretty self-conscious about this issue in the last couple of years. When I went to college I had to learn to eat a lot of new things, and it was pretty miserable. I'd go to D-Hall with friends and get a slice of pizza and a waffle while they stacked their trays with plates of food. Because the cafeteria was a new experience, I wasn't willing to try most of the foods I'd normally eat on my own. For example, I'm picky about how my hamburgers are cooked - I only like them grilled, which would infuriate my mother during the winter because I'd refuse to eat a burger she would cook on the stove.

I started to try new things in college, which was a big deal for me, even though everyone thought it was silly that I was trying new SHAPES of pasta or finally eating turkey sandwiches. My parents thought that my eating habits were finally becoming stable, that I'd be able to enjoy holiday dinners like the rest of the family. While I was able to open up a little bit, I still had the same issues: the way things felt in my mouth really bugged me, and it was keeping me from actually enjoying food. All I can focus on when I eat a turkey sandwich is how chewy the meat is. I love the taste of turkey, but the feeling of it on my tongue makes me want to gag. I experience the same thing with fruit: I love the taste of cherries, strawberries, blueberries, etc, but I can't eat them.

Moving to Chicago was a lot like starting over again at college. There were thousands of restaurants I wanted to try, but the menus were terrifying. I'd finally become comfortable going to restaurant with friends in college, and suddenly I had to start over. I had to examine menus, ask waiters what came on sandwiches and what came on the side, and had to, again, go out to eat and drink a glass of wine and eat bread while my friends had dinner. It gets pretty miserable sometimes because I don't want to make people always eat where I want to, but I do want to be able to just get a hamburger if I'm not comfortable with anything else on the menu.

Because my eating habits were brought up as an issue in the recent break up (I know, I'm sorry. LAST TIME I BRING IT UP, I promise), I've been thinking about this a lot. I started doing some online research on adults with these eating issues and, as I expected, there's not a lot of information. I did find one website* that had some information, but it was mostly a support site where people could vent about their eating disorders. It's not a great resource, but when I read some of the stories, I did find that I could relate a little bit to these people. I was also very fortunate to find that there are a lot of people with CRAZIER habits than I have, but I definitely find myself having the same apprehension about attending dinner parties, or going to weddings, or visiting my friends' parents' homes (that was a major thing when I was a kid, because I knew that my pickiness would be misconstrued as rudeness, as if I just didn't like someone's cooking). It also made me remember how frustrating it was to have dinner with my parents, how I would stress myself out and try to down a spoonful of peas or one cooked carrot.

I really wish I didn't have this problem. I've tried very hard to get over this (my methods, of course, aren't necessarily recognized as having much effort; people scoff at the idea that trying an orange or Chinese food at twenty-three is a "big deal" for me). There really aren't many resources offering help for this disorder. Unfortunately, my overwhelming self-consciousness has reached a peak because all of a sudden I feel like it's a bigger problem for other people than it is for me, as if suddenly it's impacting socialization. For the first time in my life, I'm considering getting therapy or something, calling it a "disorder" instead of just a idiosyncrasy. I agree that I should be able to eat the normal foods that everyone else enjoys, but I can't figure out exactly how to overcome the trepidation I have toward food.



*There's also a great article from the Washington Post.

I suffer from Awkward Body Image.

I want to go on record as saying that I love warm weather. I love, love, love it. Especially in Chicago, because it makes me forget about the four months of torture that I have to go through during the winter.

But, I'll admit, I hate warm weather clothes.

I've found that I have been able to deal with wearing pants all summer long, mostly because I don't go outside that often and I've also been lucky to find lightweight pants that aren't too hot. I don't wear shorts. It just doesn't happen. My legs are so very white that I'm afraid that the glare off my calves will cause automobile accidents.

Also, I have a arm issues. Everybody who knows me knows this. I would wear a sweater in August if I could get away with it. I hate my arms because they are too skinny, and I can't figure out how to make them bigger. (Meaning: I can't figure out how I can make them bigger while laying on my couch watching episodes of Soap on DVD.) My awkward clothes don't make this any easier, since even my long-sleeved shirts look too big for my arms. I'm wearing an ill-fitting linen shirt right now and I'm uncomfortable.

The thing about my own emotional problems it that I'm self-aware of how stupid they are. I can spot my craziness about seventy percent of the time, and I know that my no one else is really looking at my arms constantly and saying, "Wow, his arms are so skinny." It's not that I think people are going to be worried or anything; I'm more expecting people to JUDGE me for my arms. (I blame this fear on my own judgmental personality, which, as always, I blame on my mother.)

Anyway, what issues I have that I don't blame on genetics I blame on my high school years, so I'll return to the old, faithful picture of me as a sixteen-year-old, standing in front of my house on the first day of eleventh grade.

(Click to view my annotations.)

As you can see, I had a lot of issues back then, too, and I think that I've gotten over at least the wardrobe problem. And I've made some progress with the hair. And I've put on a lot of weight, although you can't really tell that I do do weigh about twenty pounds more than I did seven years ago. But I've still got some things to work on, as seen in this MS Paint rendering of how I see myself. (Sorry, I tend to not take full-body shots anymore.)