The Quest for Quietness

Alas, I have not been following up on the "three posts per week" thing. I blame the alien illness that has taken over my body.

Procrastination is not an illness. Honestly.

While I have been continuing with my normal routing of going to work and making people want to exercise and all that, I just haven't had the energy to blog about anything. Well, last night's story kinda takes the cake.

I teach Zumba® four nights each week. Despite not feeling 100%, I dragged my butt into class last night. I told the women that I had a sore throat so I wouldn't be talking/yelling as much as normal. Apparently someone forgot to tell my brain that. Because I was yelling all over the place. The result? I lost my voice last night. When I got home, I vowed to be completely silent all night in the hopes that my voice would return by morning so I could go to work. 

Of course, this meant that my dear husband and darling daughter had to take complete advantage over the fact that I could not yell at them to do the stuff they <i>should</i> be doing. 


By the time I get home from my class, it is a little after 8:00PM. My daughter is supposed to go to bed at 8:30PM. Instead of feeding her dinner while I was out, my husband decided to wait until I got home to start dinner. Oh, and he bought a video game for her to play and they started that too. 

You are just asking me to hurt you, you know.

Since I had no voice, I could not yell at them to get the hell off the video games and eat dinner so the kid could go to bed. Instead, I had to make angry hand gestures. 


*sigh*


After finally getting the kidlet fed and in bed, I decided to watch some television as my husband played (yet another) game on his new PlayStation Vita. Yes, my husband's video games tend to be the bane of my existence. But this means he wasn't particularly paying attention to the TV. Resulting in:


Me: *trying to laugh silently*
Husband: What?
Me: *points to the TV*
Husband: *grunt*


And this went on quite a few times since I like to watch comedies. In reality, I think they just wanted to make me talk as much as possible so I would lose my voice completely. I can't yell at them if I can't speak.


I should also note that I am trying to be super quiet today too. My voice isn't as bad as it was last night but it's definitely nowhere near better. Unfortunately, part of my job is answering telephones and people just aren't considerate enough to not call when I'm sick. Maybe I'll be lucky and this afternoon will be quiet.

The Social Calm

Last time, I told you about a birthday party my daughter attended and I promised to tell you about her bowling league. My daughter is super-active. Besides taking two dance classes a week, she is also in a children's bowling league that meets every Saturday morning. It means that every Saturday morning, I have to sit at a table with a couple of other moms and find things to talk about for about an hour.

This is what one hour of social time feels like.

A majority of the time, I sit quietly and watch my daughter bowl. Then I give her tips on how to improve. But sometimes the moms want to engage in actual conversation. Unfortunately, I just don't have a lot to talk about. Luckily, the other moms are more than willing to pick up my conversational slack.

This is usually my response when people start babbling.

Amazingly, I don't feel uncomfortable at bowling. Maybe it's because there is a very small group of us (there are only 5 kids in the league) and we're all focused on our kids. Any conversation that takes place is just something to fill in the gaps when our kids aren't up. It's nice to have someplace where I can be social if I want but it's also fine for me to not say a word beyond 'hello' and 'see you next week.'

The Problem with Parties

Now that it has been for-freaking-ever since I last updated, I suppose I shall tell you about the weekend's social endeavors, in no particular order. Today's edition? The birthday party. This birthday party took place at The Works. The Works is an arcade/restaurant/pit of hell where misbehaving children roam free while their parents sit at the bar and drink.

See? Doesn't that make the place look like FUN?

This is also where my daughter had her birthday party last year. According to the birthday child's mother, that is why they chose this venue for their party. We are totally trend-setters. Well, at least my daughter is.

My daughter also has pink highlights in her hair, which makes her the awesomest 9-year old EVER.

 Usually, there are a couple of mothers that I can sort of latch onto socially. We mostly stand nearby and make sure the children aren't dying while we discuss bland things like school and extra-curricular activities. At worst, my husband is there to keep me company. This time around, neither happened. The only parent I knew was the birthday child's mother, who was obviously busy doing birthday things like taking pictures and eating cake. I found a nice corner where I could play Hanging With Friends with my sister all afternoon, while keeping an eye on my daughter to make sure she didn't choke on her pizza or something.

I hereby claim this corner in the name of Cassandra!

After the eating had finished, the kids went into the BALLOCITY. *dun dun duuuuun* It's a big climby thing where kids can shoot balls at each other or something. It's a kid-thing. I've never set foot in it, to be honest. Where I normally would wait by the exit with the other mothers, I felt lame standing there by myself. So I went to the arcade, where I played Percussion Master like the dork I am.

Hells, yeah.

Then I wandered around until it was time to fish my daughter from the depths of the BALLOCITY. *dun dun duuuuun* Yes, sadly, playing video games with my 9-year old daughter was the most social interaction I had all weekend. Laaame.

Next time, I will tell you the tale of the bowling league moms. I really need to stop signing my kid up for stuff.

The Torment of Socialization

I am most comfortable when I am all by myself. When I am with family (outside of my husband and daughter) or a small group of friends, I am at a 3 or 4 on the Freak Out Scale. (10 would be 'OMFG, I can't deal. I'll be hiding under my bed. Thx.') I can smile and bear it but the inner monologue is rumbling on.

'What if I say something wrong?'
'Is that joke funny? Am I the only one who thinks it's funny?'
'Everyone thinks I'm an idiot. Sure, I'm answering a lot of these trivia questions but that doesn't make me SMART.' (My family plays a lot of board games together.)
'They're still holding a grudge for that minor kerfluffle that happened 10 years ago.' (My 'reality' sensor knows that this isn't the case and those involved have probably forgotten all about it. I don't forget.)

And this is when I'm with my family. Throw in some strangers and that anxiety level steadily rises.

There are two events happening this weekend. Both are high-anxiety level events. Luckily, I can only attend one. Two might make my brain explode.

The attended event is a birthday party for one of my daughter's friends. I have no idea who will be there, which is a mental killer to begin with. Add in the fact that the party is taking place at an arcade-type area where I am not comfortable just dropping my daughter off. I know that I will be expected to chat with the moms while the kids play.  Anxiety Level? 5 to 6

The event I will not be attending is a mix of a rehearsal dinner, bachelor party, and bachelorette party for my husband's best friend and his soon-to-be wife. Thanks to Facebook, I have a good idea of the guests at this party. However, these are all people that are my husband's college friends. While they are kind and accepting people, I do not count them as my friends. We're just very different types of people. As a result, I tend to feel uncomfortable around them. By no fault of theirs, trust me. It is all in my head. Anxiety level? 5 to 6

I'm not really sure if it is possible to fix this problem. After all, it's not like I have a breakdown every time a new social situation comes up. I am capable of smiling and pretending things are OK. However, every time words leave my mouth, I am worried that someone thinks what I am saying is dumb or ignorant. As a result, I frequently just say nothing.

The Trials of Body Image

Like most women, I have an issue with how I view my body. There is this disconnect between how I feel I look, how I think I look, and how I actually look. Luckily, this isn't something that comes up on a daily basis. But once in awhile I catch myself getting a little depressed about it.

In my normal day-to-day life, I feel like I look like this:

 

 

 

Sexy!

However, I don't actually own any full-length mirrors. The only mirror in my house is the one in the bathroom, which pretty much only reflects my head down to my shoulders. As a result, when I occasionally find myself in front of a full-length mirror, I think I look like this:

Sometimes my outfits are this unfortunate too.

In reality, I know I am somewhere in between. I don't own a scale so I can't really rattle off my weight off the top of my head. The last time I was weighed, which was probably about two years ago, I weighed approximately 170 lbs. Since then, I started teaching Zumba classes twice a week. (I've recently upped that to four times a week.) Here is what I do know: a size 14 pair of jeans is a little too snug on me while a size 16  is pretty big. Of course, this is mostly because I still have a 'baby gut' from when I was pregnant. The 14 would fit my waist but not my hips. The 16 fits my hips but is huge around my waist. I wear the 16, which makes me feel thinner.

Closer to reality

What does this mean for my mental state? It means that, like a lot of women, once in awhile I have a "I'm so fat" breakdown. It doesn't happen often but it does happen. And when the day comes that I will, once again, fit into a size 10, I will loudly celebrate my achievement.

There is that bag of Doritos though....

Maybe I'll aim for really fitting into a size 14 first.

The Trouble With Blogging

The vague point of this blog is to get myself out of my own head. I frequently think that others think badly of me and, therefore, spend a lot of time not saying or doing things. For example, I have been thinking of what to write as my next post here. The thought process goes a lot like this:

"Ooh, I should write about this!"
"Why? No one will want to read about that. It's not even funny!"
"It doesn't HAVE to be funny."
"Why else would anyone want to read what you write? It's not like you're informative."
"Maybe you're right. Let's see if I can find something else...."

When I realize I have nothing to say

And so on and so forth.

So this is where I make a valid attempt to stop talking myself out of everything. No, these posts may not always be funny or informative or even interesting. However, they will be written. And they will be written at least three times each week.

I can do this.

The Trauma of Hair

I really dislike being "normal" or the same as everyone else. I want to stand out from the crowd and proudly scream I'm a freak.

Well, maybe not to that extreme.

Anyway, one of the few things I really have control over is my hair. When my daughter was very young, my hair was shoulder length. Since I have very curly hair, it was mostly kept in ponytails so it wouldn't look like a hot mess.

When my daughter got older, I decided to chop it all off. I loved it. My daughter, not so much. My hair was finally short enough to look nice. No more afro for me! And I was fine experimenting with it. After all, it's just hair, right? If I hate it, it'll grow back.

Jump to last night. I finally decided that I was sick and tired of all my grey hair. Not to mention that it was starting to get embarrassing plucking the white strands at work. I had to get rid of them somehow!

Yuck.

 

 

 

So I stopped by Ulta on the way home and picked up a box of hair dye. Now...in reality, I want Sharon Osbourne's hair.

Isn't that GORGEOUS?

 But, for some reason, I have it set in my mind that my fairly conservative accountant boss would flip his lid if I came in with such an unnatural hair color. So I settled for the reddest box of over-the-counter hair dye I could get. This is where the trauma part comes in.

30 minutes is a really long time to wait

For those of you that don't dye your hair, you should know that the color that comes out of the bottle is not really the color that your hair will be after all your hard work. While I know this, my panic-riddled brain does not. So while I was waiting the 30 minutes for the super-red dye to penetrate my hair shaft, my brain had this conversation with itself:

"OMG. That is REALLY red."
"But you wanted really red."
"But this is REALLY REALLY RED. Is it going to look freakish? What if the boss freaks out and fires me because I look like a hoodlum?"
"The boss is on vacation for another week and a half. By the time he gets back, the color will have faded. Besides, it will not be that red after you wash the leftover dye out. It will be fine."
"But....but.....but....RED."

I almost gave in and rinsed my hair 10 minutes early, but I stayed strong. After the full 30 minutes, I rinsed my hair and properly conditioned it. Since I just towel dried it (since I do not own a blow dryer), I knew the color still wouldn't be true.

Commence Freak Out #2

It still looked really really red. Red enough that my brain went into overdrive again. It even got to the point where I pulled my husband into the kitchen, where the light is better, to ask him if I looked like a circus freak. He assured me that I did not. I did not believe him.

Once again, I had a mini-freak out this morning. This time I pulled my daughter into the kitchen, where the light is better, to ask her if I looked like a circus freak. She assured me that I did not. I did not believe her.

The final result

It wasn't until three different people at work told me that my hair looked good and they really liked the color that I decided that I did not, fact, ruin my life by dying my hair red. In reality, it's not even that red. Considering I didn't bleach my black hair beforehand, only my grey got colored. Instead of having grey hair, now I have coppery-colored highlights. I love them.

One day I'll have the courage to get Sharon Osbourne hair though. It just might take awhile to get there.