Last weekend, Memorial Day Weekend, as I was staggering home from my Saturday morning clinic shift, I realized I had a fever. I collapsed into bed and didn't get up until Monday.
I had a sinus infection.
That's two bed-ridden illnesses in two weeks, both during what should have been vacations.
I get it. I'm working too hard. I know. Enough already. Can I please just be healthy for another three weeks? Then I'll have a nice long rest in Bermuda coming to me. Just let me get through my finals. Is that so much to ask?
When I get back from Bermuda, this job will be over! If I take another one, it won't be nearly as demanding! No really, it won't! It'll be half the commute! And with nice people! THINGS WILL BE DIFFERENT, I SWEAR!
I promise. I'll take it easy. Hey - not only that, I'm taking a whole 'nuther week off in July! I really will be taking it slower.
I promise myself. I WILL slow down. I WILL stress less next semester.
I promise.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
So that Trip to Chicago I mentioned?
It was last weekend.
Saturday morning, I caught the most hellish case of stomach flu mankind has yet experienced. It took three days for me to be able to tolerate food normally.
However, prior to the illness, I bought a leather grommeted handbag for over $100, far and away the most I have ever spent on such an accessory.
The flu was my penance.
Still loving massage... but sick and tired of my classes. SERIOUSLY fed-up with this 18-hour-day BS.
4 weeks until Bermuda.
I have officially begun wedding planning.
It's all good. But my boss is calling, gotta -
Saturday morning, I caught the most hellish case of stomach flu mankind has yet experienced. It took three days for me to be able to tolerate food normally.
However, prior to the illness, I bought a leather grommeted handbag for over $100, far and away the most I have ever spent on such an accessory.
The flu was my penance.
Still loving massage... but sick and tired of my classes. SERIOUSLY fed-up with this 18-hour-day BS.
4 weeks until Bermuda.
I have officially begun wedding planning.
It's all good. But my boss is calling, gotta -
Friday, May 12, 2006
Getting Rough
Last night, I saw a friend of mine who happens to be a chiropractor. I was nervous to tell her about my neck and back pain. I knew she might offer to give me an adjustment, and I didn't know how I'd respond if she did.
Chiropracty scares me. I know there are, like any health care professional, good ones and bad ones. There are great ones too, and complete quacks. Once in my life I went to a chiropractor, for rather mild chronic neck pain, and had a bad experience. It was my Mom's chiropractor's office, and she felt bad, especially since it turned out that the actual doctor did not work on me. Some angry fat Starr Jones type of woman electro-stimmed my back at far too high a setting, and when I asked her to lower it, she refused, saying "Ah got twelve-year-olds who can take it higher'n dis!"
It's also true that my Mom saw this guy once a week for god knows how long and never seemed to get any better. Goddamn quack.
Recently, since I've been in Massage School, I've met chiropractors who I have a lot of respect for. They really know their physiology, and they don't talk like business people - they talk like human beings. My anatomy teacher, practicing chiropractic for something like 30 years, is always telling us that the doctors you want to see are the ones who tell you you don't need surgery and you don't need a lot of drug therapy. He's bitching constantly about the money-mill that much of modern medical practice has become. He has plenty of choice words to say about the Pharmaceutical companies, and alternative healthcare practitioners who don't study hard sciences. We love listening to his rants and raves - particularly me, who has been ranting and raving about the same things for years. And more than anything I love seeing the mis-information that fills my fellow students heads come crumbling to dust. I can see it in their eyes, the realization that eating spinach does not cause urinary tract infections, and that simple balanced diet and regular exercise can combat a number of minor health issues far better than a bottle of vitamins from GNC.
But I digress. I took a risk, and I mentioned to my friend that I'd been in severe pain all day, to the point where I wasn't sure how I'd driven around, being unable to look over my shoulder to see who's in the blind spot. Actually, I didn't even have to mention anything - she noticed I was out of it. "You want me to have a look?" She said.
"Actually," I swallowed, "I was going to ask your advice..."
She instructed me to lie on my stomach. I used my jacket as a face cradle. She started doing some massage-type moves on my shoulder, rather rough, but not painful. "God, it's like rocks in here," she mused. I was starting to wish the carpeting was plushier.
Next thing I knew, K-K-C-C-RRRRAC-C-C-K-K! My lower neck sounded like a machine gun. A small cry escaped my lips, not of pain, but of fear. "You ok?" my friend asked. "Yeah - I'm scared!" I admitted, wondering if this was such a good idea. "It's ok," she said, rubbing my back. "Don't be scared."
Then she cracked my neck the other way - RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT. I almost cried. There was still no pain - my fear had me in a tight grip. I knew I was tensing all over. Somehow she managed to relax the area she needed to work, in spite of me. Underneath it all, I trust this woman. I know she knows what she's doing. She adjusted my hips once, and I walked straighter and less painfully than I had been for the previous week and a half. I know she's good at this. But we're talking about my NECK here. Thanks to my Dad's neuropsychological practice, I've seen first hand what can happen with a mis-placed chiropractic adjustment to the cervical vertebrae. One wrong twist and I could lose half my IQ points, not to mention my ability to drive or find my way home from anywhere. I would NEVER have allowed anyone to do this to me.
Even now, I'm not sure why I let her do it. Maybe I didn't want her to think I didn't trust her. Which is silly, I know she would have understood. Maybe I was just in so much pain yesterday that I was willing to try anything. Maybe I didn't think she'd do anything so drastic. Maybe I just didn't want to be afraid of something that I knew could potentially help me, even if it is a risky procedure. Who knows?
Eventually she moved farther down my spine to between my shoulder blades, and pushed sort of downwards. CRACK. A few inches up. CRACK. A few inches up, toward the base of my neck. CRACK. "Scary!" I choked. "I'm scared!"
She stopped. "That's ok." She rubbed the muscles around my spine, and I took a breather. It took everything inside me not to cry. My insides felt like a soda can that's been in a paint shaker. I thought I might explode... and I didn't know what would splatter all over the walls if I did.
My friend instructed me to roll over onto my back. I knew what was coming. She was going to crack my neck again. She could feel my fear, and she talked me through it somehow. I remember her telling me to wiggle my shoulder, which loosened me up a bit, but when she cracked me again, I almost screamed. And still, no pain. Just fear. Intense fear.
At some point, she stopped. "Just lie there for a few minutes." I was glad to. I felt as though I had just gotten off the rollercoaster from hell. And yet, I wasn't angry, and I wasn't sorry I had done this. I didn't really feel anything I'd characterize as negative, except perhaps a very thin, deep layer of shame. Was I ashamed that I'd been scared? Or was I ashamed that I had done something I swore I'd never do? Was I afraid of what my Dad might think if I told him? I have no reason to be, he acknowledges the benefits of good chiropracty. What was really underneath all that?
What was I really so afraid of?
At some point I got up, I thanked my friend profusely, and I headed for home. She had worked on me for a good 15-20 minutes, free of charge. Her practice isn't anywhere near where I live, so I doubt I'll be making any appointments, but it was such an experience for me, and I've been fascinated by it all this morning.
The best part, of course, is that today, my pain is about 50% gone, and virtually all my range of motion has been restored. Actually, maybe the best part is that I've discovered something about the fear inside me, how powerful it really is, and how powerful I have become at controlling it... and how that is not really a very good thing.
I don't think I'm going to be pursuing chiropracty again anytime soon - it's just too much for me right now. But I have made an appointment for next Wednesday at an Orthopedic Clinic in Midtown where one of my teachers works. They have a chiropractor onsite, but they also do medical massage, Trigger Point therapy, and Physical Therapy, as well as acupuncture and some other modalities. I'm sure someone there should be able to help me figure out what's going on in here.
Or, I should say, help me to help them help me.
Say THAT five times fast.
Chiropracty scares me. I know there are, like any health care professional, good ones and bad ones. There are great ones too, and complete quacks. Once in my life I went to a chiropractor, for rather mild chronic neck pain, and had a bad experience. It was my Mom's chiropractor's office, and she felt bad, especially since it turned out that the actual doctor did not work on me. Some angry fat Starr Jones type of woman electro-stimmed my back at far too high a setting, and when I asked her to lower it, she refused, saying "Ah got twelve-year-olds who can take it higher'n dis!"
It's also true that my Mom saw this guy once a week for god knows how long and never seemed to get any better. Goddamn quack.
Recently, since I've been in Massage School, I've met chiropractors who I have a lot of respect for. They really know their physiology, and they don't talk like business people - they talk like human beings. My anatomy teacher, practicing chiropractic for something like 30 years, is always telling us that the doctors you want to see are the ones who tell you you don't need surgery and you don't need a lot of drug therapy. He's bitching constantly about the money-mill that much of modern medical practice has become. He has plenty of choice words to say about the Pharmaceutical companies, and alternative healthcare practitioners who don't study hard sciences. We love listening to his rants and raves - particularly me, who has been ranting and raving about the same things for years. And more than anything I love seeing the mis-information that fills my fellow students heads come crumbling to dust. I can see it in their eyes, the realization that eating spinach does not cause urinary tract infections, and that simple balanced diet and regular exercise can combat a number of minor health issues far better than a bottle of vitamins from GNC.
But I digress. I took a risk, and I mentioned to my friend that I'd been in severe pain all day, to the point where I wasn't sure how I'd driven around, being unable to look over my shoulder to see who's in the blind spot. Actually, I didn't even have to mention anything - she noticed I was out of it. "You want me to have a look?" She said.
"Actually," I swallowed, "I was going to ask your advice..."
She instructed me to lie on my stomach. I used my jacket as a face cradle. She started doing some massage-type moves on my shoulder, rather rough, but not painful. "God, it's like rocks in here," she mused. I was starting to wish the carpeting was plushier.
Next thing I knew, K-K-C-C-RRRRAC-C-C-K-K! My lower neck sounded like a machine gun. A small cry escaped my lips, not of pain, but of fear. "You ok?" my friend asked. "Yeah - I'm scared!" I admitted, wondering if this was such a good idea. "It's ok," she said, rubbing my back. "Don't be scared."
Then she cracked my neck the other way - RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT. I almost cried. There was still no pain - my fear had me in a tight grip. I knew I was tensing all over. Somehow she managed to relax the area she needed to work, in spite of me. Underneath it all, I trust this woman. I know she knows what she's doing. She adjusted my hips once, and I walked straighter and less painfully than I had been for the previous week and a half. I know she's good at this. But we're talking about my NECK here. Thanks to my Dad's neuropsychological practice, I've seen first hand what can happen with a mis-placed chiropractic adjustment to the cervical vertebrae. One wrong twist and I could lose half my IQ points, not to mention my ability to drive or find my way home from anywhere. I would NEVER have allowed anyone to do this to me.
Even now, I'm not sure why I let her do it. Maybe I didn't want her to think I didn't trust her. Which is silly, I know she would have understood. Maybe I was just in so much pain yesterday that I was willing to try anything. Maybe I didn't think she'd do anything so drastic. Maybe I just didn't want to be afraid of something that I knew could potentially help me, even if it is a risky procedure. Who knows?
Eventually she moved farther down my spine to between my shoulder blades, and pushed sort of downwards. CRACK. A few inches up. CRACK. A few inches up, toward the base of my neck. CRACK. "Scary!" I choked. "I'm scared!"
She stopped. "That's ok." She rubbed the muscles around my spine, and I took a breather. It took everything inside me not to cry. My insides felt like a soda can that's been in a paint shaker. I thought I might explode... and I didn't know what would splatter all over the walls if I did.
My friend instructed me to roll over onto my back. I knew what was coming. She was going to crack my neck again. She could feel my fear, and she talked me through it somehow. I remember her telling me to wiggle my shoulder, which loosened me up a bit, but when she cracked me again, I almost screamed. And still, no pain. Just fear. Intense fear.
At some point, she stopped. "Just lie there for a few minutes." I was glad to. I felt as though I had just gotten off the rollercoaster from hell. And yet, I wasn't angry, and I wasn't sorry I had done this. I didn't really feel anything I'd characterize as negative, except perhaps a very thin, deep layer of shame. Was I ashamed that I'd been scared? Or was I ashamed that I had done something I swore I'd never do? Was I afraid of what my Dad might think if I told him? I have no reason to be, he acknowledges the benefits of good chiropracty. What was really underneath all that?
What was I really so afraid of?
At some point I got up, I thanked my friend profusely, and I headed for home. She had worked on me for a good 15-20 minutes, free of charge. Her practice isn't anywhere near where I live, so I doubt I'll be making any appointments, but it was such an experience for me, and I've been fascinated by it all this morning.
The best part, of course, is that today, my pain is about 50% gone, and virtually all my range of motion has been restored. Actually, maybe the best part is that I've discovered something about the fear inside me, how powerful it really is, and how powerful I have become at controlling it... and how that is not really a very good thing.
I don't think I'm going to be pursuing chiropracty again anytime soon - it's just too much for me right now. But I have made an appointment for next Wednesday at an Orthopedic Clinic in Midtown where one of my teachers works. They have a chiropractor onsite, but they also do medical massage, Trigger Point therapy, and Physical Therapy, as well as acupuncture and some other modalities. I'm sure someone there should be able to help me figure out what's going on in here.
Or, I should say, help me to help them help me.
Say THAT five times fast.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
This wasn't what I had in mind
Today, I have the day off. I requested Wednesdays off from my job, and my request was granted. I now only work four days a week.
I did this because the schedule was just killing me. I need to be able to sleep past 7AM more than one day a week. I also need to work out more than once a week, and to just sleep more. So I had all day today. And, since classes were canceled again this week, I have tonight as well.
This morning, I took the 9:30 Hatha Yoga class. It was wonderful. When I walked in, the ladies recognized me, and lots of high-pitched greetings followed. The class was challenging enough to stretch me but familiar enough to be comforting. The instructor whispered to me once that my practice was beautiful, and I just glowed inside from top to toe. After class, I strolled the two blocks home in beautiful weather, and had a peanut-butter sandwich on wheat toast and a low-fat smoothie for breakfast.
Then things went downhill.
I can't quite explain how, but this heaviness started in my head. Like a headache, but it didn't really hurt. My head just felt heavy. I thought it was sinuses, but it seemed, well, deeper than that. I was still in my yoga pants and tank top. I sat down at the computer and read some people's blogs, and looked at some fun Flickr stuff, and felt worse and worse. I wanted to curl up on the couch and sleep, but I couldn't let myself do that. I had errands to run. I have to go to the store. I have to buy toilet paper. I can't go back to bed. The desire to go back to bed was almost overwhelming.
I shut off the computer and tried to watch my soap, TiVoed from yesterday and Monday. I fast-forwarded through most of it because, frankly, it sucks. And I was craving food. Nothing specific, like chocolate or potato chips - I just wanted to EAT. Eat a lot. I forced myself to sit on that couch and not go to the fridge. I just re-joined Weight Watchers last Monday and I am NOT going to do sabotage myself three days in a row! I'm not in the swing of the plan yet. I overate Monday and Tuesday. I was hoping being away from the cafeteria today might help. Nope.
I called one of my classmates, because I had said I would study with him if he needed me to. I didn't want to call him. I didn't want to do jack shit. But I felt obligated, so I called him. Of course, he wanted to get together. I told him I wouldn't mind having lunch somewhere, but I was not going to be any good for studying. So we met at this mexican restaurant, where I proceeded to drink two coronas, eat a lot of chips and salsa, and totally cry on his shoulder about how I can't see myself being happy living anywhere other than New York City, and how could I have fallen so hopelessly in love with a man who hates New York?
After "lunch," we drove over to the local state park, and I bitched and moaned and cried about how spoiled I feel, that I have such a great life, and I ought to be happy, and that this is just a phase I'm going through, and I'm sure once I get back in the swing of school I'll feel much better but today I just CANNOT COPE.
My friend listened, and held my hand, and rubbed my back like I was a golden retriever, and said all the right things. "You're not spoiled, you're just lonely right now because you and G don't have enough quality time together. It will get better. And you don't know that you won't be able to stay in New York. Get a place in Hoboken or Newport Center. You'll be getting your license soon. You'll be working in Manhattan. You've got a good thing going with G." Etc. Etc.
By the time I'd finished my cry, I was tuckered out, so asked my friend to drop me off in the middle of town, on a street corner that I like because it reminds me of the corner of Bleecker and Cornelia. From there I walked home, about 6 or 7 blocks. It was a nice walk. For a minute or two I forgot who I was, what was going on, what the world was about.
I've been wading through a thick bout of depression for about 3 weeks now. I really hate it, because everything is harder. My life isn't exactly easy when I'm in a good mood, but when I feel like this, just getting up to go to the bathroom is too much effort. My right shoulder hurts, my left hip, my lower back, my neck, my head... every little ache is just magnified. FOR NO GOOD REASON. I could take Advil, sure... how much? For how long? I could go to bed... but I'll just have to get up again later. What's the point?
I dread going to work in the morning. I dread having to drive to the school on Saturday morning. I pretty much dread having to go anywhere or do anything. I forced myself to the grocery store, and I got the toilet paper, and I should have gassed up the car too, but the thought of driving to and from the gas station, never mind talking to the grouchy attendent, filled me with such.. I don't even know how to describe it, but I shook all over, literally shook just thinking about it. I'll gas up tomorrow after work, I told myself, and motored home.
The groceries are sitting on the floor in the bag right now. I should put them away. After I do, I probably will go to bed. It'll be about 9pm, that's an acceptable time for early bed, right? I'll read some of the great book I have, and fall asleep. And somehow I'll deal with tomorrow when it comes.
I miss G. But then I'm glad he's not here to see me like this. Part of me is still afraid he won't want to be with me if he were to see too much of this part of me. Part of me knows that he loves me, depressive episodes and all. Part of me, though, isn't sure if that is true. Part of me feels that he's marrying me because I've managed to convince him that I'm really not that sick. Really, I'm not! Look, I'm doing all this stuff! I promise, I won't ever get drunk again. You won't even notice when I'm depressed. I promise.
Today I had planned on resting, going to the gym and getting a year-long membership, talking to my Mom on the phone and my girlfriends, cleaning the house and picking out clothes for tomorrow, making a nice salad for myself and ending the day with a hot bath. Instead I took a very opening yoga class, and spent the rest of the day crying and doing my damndest to behave like a healthy person, when all I wanted to do was eat everything in sight, lie around in my pajamas, and drift in and out of sleep.
Well, shit.
I did this because the schedule was just killing me. I need to be able to sleep past 7AM more than one day a week. I also need to work out more than once a week, and to just sleep more. So I had all day today. And, since classes were canceled again this week, I have tonight as well.
This morning, I took the 9:30 Hatha Yoga class. It was wonderful. When I walked in, the ladies recognized me, and lots of high-pitched greetings followed. The class was challenging enough to stretch me but familiar enough to be comforting. The instructor whispered to me once that my practice was beautiful, and I just glowed inside from top to toe. After class, I strolled the two blocks home in beautiful weather, and had a peanut-butter sandwich on wheat toast and a low-fat smoothie for breakfast.
Then things went downhill.
I can't quite explain how, but this heaviness started in my head. Like a headache, but it didn't really hurt. My head just felt heavy. I thought it was sinuses, but it seemed, well, deeper than that. I was still in my yoga pants and tank top. I sat down at the computer and read some people's blogs, and looked at some fun Flickr stuff, and felt worse and worse. I wanted to curl up on the couch and sleep, but I couldn't let myself do that. I had errands to run. I have to go to the store. I have to buy toilet paper. I can't go back to bed. The desire to go back to bed was almost overwhelming.
I shut off the computer and tried to watch my soap, TiVoed from yesterday and Monday. I fast-forwarded through most of it because, frankly, it sucks. And I was craving food. Nothing specific, like chocolate or potato chips - I just wanted to EAT. Eat a lot. I forced myself to sit on that couch and not go to the fridge. I just re-joined Weight Watchers last Monday and I am NOT going to do sabotage myself three days in a row! I'm not in the swing of the plan yet. I overate Monday and Tuesday. I was hoping being away from the cafeteria today might help. Nope.
I called one of my classmates, because I had said I would study with him if he needed me to. I didn't want to call him. I didn't want to do jack shit. But I felt obligated, so I called him. Of course, he wanted to get together. I told him I wouldn't mind having lunch somewhere, but I was not going to be any good for studying. So we met at this mexican restaurant, where I proceeded to drink two coronas, eat a lot of chips and salsa, and totally cry on his shoulder about how I can't see myself being happy living anywhere other than New York City, and how could I have fallen so hopelessly in love with a man who hates New York?
After "lunch," we drove over to the local state park, and I bitched and moaned and cried about how spoiled I feel, that I have such a great life, and I ought to be happy, and that this is just a phase I'm going through, and I'm sure once I get back in the swing of school I'll feel much better but today I just CANNOT COPE.
My friend listened, and held my hand, and rubbed my back like I was a golden retriever, and said all the right things. "You're not spoiled, you're just lonely right now because you and G don't have enough quality time together. It will get better. And you don't know that you won't be able to stay in New York. Get a place in Hoboken or Newport Center. You'll be getting your license soon. You'll be working in Manhattan. You've got a good thing going with G." Etc. Etc.
By the time I'd finished my cry, I was tuckered out, so asked my friend to drop me off in the middle of town, on a street corner that I like because it reminds me of the corner of Bleecker and Cornelia. From there I walked home, about 6 or 7 blocks. It was a nice walk. For a minute or two I forgot who I was, what was going on, what the world was about.
I've been wading through a thick bout of depression for about 3 weeks now. I really hate it, because everything is harder. My life isn't exactly easy when I'm in a good mood, but when I feel like this, just getting up to go to the bathroom is too much effort. My right shoulder hurts, my left hip, my lower back, my neck, my head... every little ache is just magnified. FOR NO GOOD REASON. I could take Advil, sure... how much? For how long? I could go to bed... but I'll just have to get up again later. What's the point?
I dread going to work in the morning. I dread having to drive to the school on Saturday morning. I pretty much dread having to go anywhere or do anything. I forced myself to the grocery store, and I got the toilet paper, and I should have gassed up the car too, but the thought of driving to and from the gas station, never mind talking to the grouchy attendent, filled me with such.. I don't even know how to describe it, but I shook all over, literally shook just thinking about it. I'll gas up tomorrow after work, I told myself, and motored home.
The groceries are sitting on the floor in the bag right now. I should put them away. After I do, I probably will go to bed. It'll be about 9pm, that's an acceptable time for early bed, right? I'll read some of the great book I have, and fall asleep. And somehow I'll deal with tomorrow when it comes.
I miss G. But then I'm glad he's not here to see me like this. Part of me is still afraid he won't want to be with me if he were to see too much of this part of me. Part of me knows that he loves me, depressive episodes and all. Part of me, though, isn't sure if that is true. Part of me feels that he's marrying me because I've managed to convince him that I'm really not that sick. Really, I'm not! Look, I'm doing all this stuff! I promise, I won't ever get drunk again. You won't even notice when I'm depressed. I promise.
Today I had planned on resting, going to the gym and getting a year-long membership, talking to my Mom on the phone and my girlfriends, cleaning the house and picking out clothes for tomorrow, making a nice salad for myself and ending the day with a hot bath. Instead I took a very opening yoga class, and spent the rest of the day crying and doing my damndest to behave like a healthy person, when all I wanted to do was eat everything in sight, lie around in my pajamas, and drift in and out of sleep.
Well, shit.
Monday, May 08, 2006
In the Beginning
It was New Year's Eve 1989, and I had a leather coat.
Not just any leather coat – a black suede blazer with long fringe and a gold satin lining. It picked up the flash in my gold hoop earrings as I walked, leaving the front unbuttoned, letting the lapels flap slightly, the lining flashing here and there. It was heavy, and soft, and bad-assed, and looked expensive. Very few of my peers owned a leather coat. Those who did had nothing so extravagant as mine.
I walked into that party behind Earl, the guy I'd been dating for the past year. He swaggered ahead in Ritchie Sambora black boots and a smile so dazzling you barely noticed his receding hairline. He was short, but strong, and mean. And loud. And needed to be the center of attention. His favorite butt of every joke was me.
It had been more than a year, I suppose. We had briefly been engaged, then I had broken it off. I tried to date someone else, but Earl stalked us around town until I feared for my life, and the other guy's life. One night after a date with that other guy, Earl was waiting near my house. When I got out of the car, and my friend drove away, Earl grabbed me in my front yard and threw me to the grass, spitting on me. I tried to get up and he pushed me back down. The grass was wet. I just sat there. I don't remember the things he said. My parents were home, but sleeping. Earl was a master at hiding his violence. He never left me with bruises.
It was hard being seventeen in that town. I was a very, very sexy young girl, one of those girls who has no idea how to handle what she’s got, what it's worth. And Earl really wasn't much worse than most of the guys. He was country and unsophisticated, but when he was nice to me, he was really nice. He'd shower me with gifts, presenting them to me on one knee, often in public, his eyes piercing through me as if he could will me into his posession. Our courtship had begun when I was sixteen, and a young sixteen at that. Where most boys didn't bother with me at all, Earl made me feel like a princess. I guess Earl felt he wouldn't have to worry about competition for me. For the most part, he was right. I remember one of Earl’s buddies saying “that’s a lot of meat to handle.” Earl had told him about how I had tried to break up with him a couple of times, and he had to work hard to keep me in line.
I could never attract the attention of nice boys. I tried, but I must have made them nervous. It was always older men – much older – and bad boys who made no secret of what they wanted. They handed me roses and played love songs on the jukebox for me, and actually called me the next morning after tussling in their cars all night. This probably only hurt my image and drove the nice boys farther off... but I was lonely, and felt that I was in no position to be choosy.
Earl, at least, was gorgeous. At 21 years of age he had round apple cheeks with a sexy stubble, unruly ringlets of dirty blonde hair, bedroom eyes and that winning smile. He had played football in high school, but had bad memories of it. I always wondered if he hadn’t been kicked off the team for drinking and smoking, or more likely, fighting with the coach. When I knew him, Earl had dreams of being an actor. He couldn't sing, but that was alright, in community theatre if you can walk straight and speak intelligible English you can be in the show. He was a passable dancer, meaning that he could learn the steps and keep up. Of course he could lift a gal over his head with minimal effort, not to mention throw her across the room, so before long he was cast in the ballet company shows. Half-prancing, half-lumbering around in black tights and canvas ballet slippers, Earl made steps that should have been elegant and majestic look somehow wimpy. He claimed to hate Baryshnikov, and emulated Nureyev. I think he was jealous of Baryshnikov. The girls mooned over Mischa far too much.
Before me, Earl had dated a short, plump girl, who my friends described as dowdy. I had to admit she wasn't attractive, but I guess in the dark the sex must have been alright. Similar things were said about the two girls he’d dated before that - I had known them all. None of them were beauty queens. Everyone said I was the prettiest girl he'd ever been with.
My memories of that relationship are painful, and riddled with holes. My most vivid memories are of him holding me against the wall in my kitchen, refusing to leave my house, mumbling softly into my face for the better part of three hours about his undying, desperate love for me, and how he knew I dreamed of cheating on him. He claimed he could read my mind and see the lies and secret betrayals I was planning to commit. He squeezed real tears out of his eyes as he begged me to tell him why, why couldn't I love him the way he loved me? Nothing I said was good enough. Nothing I said would reassure him, comfort him, calm him down. Nothing I said was convincing enough. Eventually, always the sex would come, or something like sex, that I didn't want but he insisted on, to prove my love for him. I remember this, and it happened so many times. At my house, when my parents were asleep. At his house, because his family didn’t care what went on behind his bedroom door. In the car. At a rest stop once, that he drove me to, miles out of town, just to put me through this. At a friend’s house, during a party, with people banging on the bathroom door asking “are you all right in there?” as I drowned in humiliation. When we finally exited the bathroom, I was barely able to walk from exhaustion, and when people asked if everything was ok, Earl would smile, his arm around my shoulders, holding me up, and say "We're fine. Deidre's just not feeling so good. I'd better take her home."
My memories of the sex are almost completely gone. I remember it hurting, and that I never had any choice in the matter. I remember waking up from some sort of daydream to see him putting on his pants and getting up to take a phone call. I remember him pinning me to the bed, spitting in my face, more accusations of cheating.
He was my first time.
Finally I went to college, and he followed me there. He enrolled in the school, he declared the same major as me, and he was in a few of my classes. He couldn’t, however, follow me home – my parents had arranged for me to live in student housing, and blissfully, I was placed in an all-girl dormitory with restricted visitation hours for the opposite sex. I made girlfriends, and for the first time outside of Springfield, I began to talk about Earl, and the relationship. I learned that I was far from the only person to live through such things. I learned that, if I needed help, I could call my girlfriends. I learned that I had a safe place to hide.
It took a while to completely extricate him from my life. I began a relationship with another man – realizing Earl’s worst fear. I left him for that man, and though we tried to be friends, Earl never stopped trying to get me alone in his room. Once or twice I found myself there, after drinking too much at a party, and to this day I am not sure how I escaped. At some point I began to scream and shout at him, rather than dissolve into tears and a low-level unconsciousness. And then, one night, I called the police.
Earl called me up late at night. I had been on the phone with my new boyfriend for a while. I’m sure Earl had been trying to call, and couldn’t get through, and he knew who I was talking to. So when the line was free, he called and said that he had swallowed a bottle of aspirin and was calling to say goodbye. He was allergic to aspirin, and apparently, this could kill him. What did I know? He called with a suicide threat – so I called the police. I told them exactly what he had told me, and I gave a complete description. Earl had said he was calling from a pay telephone at a certain location, so I gave that to the police as well.
The police called me back. “He’s not at the payphone, ma’am. We’re looking in the local bars and alleys, but we’re not finding him. Can you tell us where he lives?”
I gave the police his home address. They found him there, clean and sober and right as rain. The police called me back. “He’s fine, ma’am. He says the two of you broke up today, and that you did this to get back at him.”
I was stunned. “And you believe him and not me?” I asked. “Well, ma’am, he looks just fine to us,” the cop replied. “Well, I guess that’s what he would say. So I guess you’re going to believe him,” I said. We hung up.
The next day, Earl was waiting for me outside the building where I had class. “You know you woke up everyone in my house last night. Everyone’s pretty pissed at you.”
“You called me and said you were committing suicide,” I responded. “What did you think I would do?”
“I didn’t think you’d call the cops,” Earl replied, taking a puff on his cigarette.
“Now you know,” I said.
“Here,” Earl grunted. He handed me some CD’s of mine that he had borrowed. “I think there’s some more of your stuff at the house.”
“Keep it,” I said. “In fact, keep these too.”
I went to class, and he wandered off, across the quad.
Earl was flunking out, and eventually he formally withdrew from school. He kept an apartment in town though, and started dating someone, an overweight blonde girl. I found out through a mutual friend that this girl was seen with black eyes and bruises frequently. I made every effort to reach out to her, to tell her not to listen to his lies and his crap.
Eventually, incredibly, through the efforts of a string of acquaintances, this girl called me. “I just wanted you to know that I don’t hate you, and I’m not plotting anything against you,” she said. “I don’t even know you – but I know Earl.”
“I’m so glad you called me,” I said. “Please, can we meet somewhere?”
“No,” she said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. If he even finds out we talked…”
“He’s a liar,” I said to her. “He’s been lying to the both of us for a long time. I’ve known him for years. Don’t believe anything he says to you.”
“I know, he lies,” she said. “He lies a lot.”
“Please, can you call me again? Call me tomorrow night. I really think we should talk. Or we can meet somewhere, anywhere, it doesn't have to be my dorm. Someone else's place.”
I got her to agree to call me back the next day, but she never did. I never heard from her again.
About six months later, I saw Earl for the last time. I was walking home from a late class, and he pulled up in a beat-up Bronco-type vehicle. He stepped out of the car and stumbled over to me. “Miss me?” he said, with that terrible smile. The smell of alcohol on his breath nearly knocked me over.
“Let me go,” I choked, realizing his fingers were digging into my tricep. He dragged me toward the car. Two other guys were in the car, whooping and laughing. “My Wife!” He bellowed at the car.
I kicked, I dropped my books, I kicked again, and I ran. “Fucking BITCH” I heard behind me, and the sound of the car revving. I ran until I reached my dorm room. I locked myself into my room on the 17th floor and cried for hours.
At some point, a boy I had been casually dating on campus knocked on my door. I tried to tell him what had happened to me, but he looked at me like I was nuts. I don’t think he believed me. In retrospect, it’s hard to believe it myself. It’s like a nightmare, like something out of a bad movie. I wish it hadn’t really happened. I had nightmares about being grabbed and dragged into dark places for about five years afterward. I'd wake up feeling my arms and legs being ripped out of their sockets and a stinging throbbing pain between my legs. I'd stare into my dark bedroom and shake until my body gave out, and I fell asleep again.
I went to the student counseling center, and began to write. I wrote poems and short stories about violence, about hitting people with steel pipes, about bashing in skulls. I wrote poems about witches casting evil spells on me, throwing cloaks of fear over me that were so heavy I was pinned to the ground. I dreamed of death and churches with gaping holes in the floor, and I wrote that down too. I dreamed of jumping off of buildings, and wrote about that, my dreams of flying, flying, flying, and finally of dying. Finally, years later, I wrote a poem about throwing myself into traffic in Manhattan.
However, I was never truly suicidal. I was a pain addict. And it wasn’t because of Earl that I wanted a grand death. It wasn’t Earl that made me feel dead inside. Earl introduced me to greed, to pain, and to the need to control others. He did not, however, teach me what loss was. I never grieved the loss of Earl. I never missed him, I never thought of him, and I never once regretted the many times I tried to get rid of him. The day I kicked him out of my life was a triumph. Losing Earl was no loss. Losing Earl made me feel alive, made me want to live.
It was the boy I met at that party, so long ago, when I was that pretty just-turned-eighteen-year-old girl in the coolest jacket ever, who made me feel dead.
Not just any leather coat – a black suede blazer with long fringe and a gold satin lining. It picked up the flash in my gold hoop earrings as I walked, leaving the front unbuttoned, letting the lapels flap slightly, the lining flashing here and there. It was heavy, and soft, and bad-assed, and looked expensive. Very few of my peers owned a leather coat. Those who did had nothing so extravagant as mine.
I walked into that party behind Earl, the guy I'd been dating for the past year. He swaggered ahead in Ritchie Sambora black boots and a smile so dazzling you barely noticed his receding hairline. He was short, but strong, and mean. And loud. And needed to be the center of attention. His favorite butt of every joke was me.
It had been more than a year, I suppose. We had briefly been engaged, then I had broken it off. I tried to date someone else, but Earl stalked us around town until I feared for my life, and the other guy's life. One night after a date with that other guy, Earl was waiting near my house. When I got out of the car, and my friend drove away, Earl grabbed me in my front yard and threw me to the grass, spitting on me. I tried to get up and he pushed me back down. The grass was wet. I just sat there. I don't remember the things he said. My parents were home, but sleeping. Earl was a master at hiding his violence. He never left me with bruises.
It was hard being seventeen in that town. I was a very, very sexy young girl, one of those girls who has no idea how to handle what she’s got, what it's worth. And Earl really wasn't much worse than most of the guys. He was country and unsophisticated, but when he was nice to me, he was really nice. He'd shower me with gifts, presenting them to me on one knee, often in public, his eyes piercing through me as if he could will me into his posession. Our courtship had begun when I was sixteen, and a young sixteen at that. Where most boys didn't bother with me at all, Earl made me feel like a princess. I guess Earl felt he wouldn't have to worry about competition for me. For the most part, he was right. I remember one of Earl’s buddies saying “that’s a lot of meat to handle.” Earl had told him about how I had tried to break up with him a couple of times, and he had to work hard to keep me in line.
I could never attract the attention of nice boys. I tried, but I must have made them nervous. It was always older men – much older – and bad boys who made no secret of what they wanted. They handed me roses and played love songs on the jukebox for me, and actually called me the next morning after tussling in their cars all night. This probably only hurt my image and drove the nice boys farther off... but I was lonely, and felt that I was in no position to be choosy.
Earl, at least, was gorgeous. At 21 years of age he had round apple cheeks with a sexy stubble, unruly ringlets of dirty blonde hair, bedroom eyes and that winning smile. He had played football in high school, but had bad memories of it. I always wondered if he hadn’t been kicked off the team for drinking and smoking, or more likely, fighting with the coach. When I knew him, Earl had dreams of being an actor. He couldn't sing, but that was alright, in community theatre if you can walk straight and speak intelligible English you can be in the show. He was a passable dancer, meaning that he could learn the steps and keep up. Of course he could lift a gal over his head with minimal effort, not to mention throw her across the room, so before long he was cast in the ballet company shows. Half-prancing, half-lumbering around in black tights and canvas ballet slippers, Earl made steps that should have been elegant and majestic look somehow wimpy. He claimed to hate Baryshnikov, and emulated Nureyev. I think he was jealous of Baryshnikov. The girls mooned over Mischa far too much.
Before me, Earl had dated a short, plump girl, who my friends described as dowdy. I had to admit she wasn't attractive, but I guess in the dark the sex must have been alright. Similar things were said about the two girls he’d dated before that - I had known them all. None of them were beauty queens. Everyone said I was the prettiest girl he'd ever been with.
My memories of that relationship are painful, and riddled with holes. My most vivid memories are of him holding me against the wall in my kitchen, refusing to leave my house, mumbling softly into my face for the better part of three hours about his undying, desperate love for me, and how he knew I dreamed of cheating on him. He claimed he could read my mind and see the lies and secret betrayals I was planning to commit. He squeezed real tears out of his eyes as he begged me to tell him why, why couldn't I love him the way he loved me? Nothing I said was good enough. Nothing I said would reassure him, comfort him, calm him down. Nothing I said was convincing enough. Eventually, always the sex would come, or something like sex, that I didn't want but he insisted on, to prove my love for him. I remember this, and it happened so many times. At my house, when my parents were asleep. At his house, because his family didn’t care what went on behind his bedroom door. In the car. At a rest stop once, that he drove me to, miles out of town, just to put me through this. At a friend’s house, during a party, with people banging on the bathroom door asking “are you all right in there?” as I drowned in humiliation. When we finally exited the bathroom, I was barely able to walk from exhaustion, and when people asked if everything was ok, Earl would smile, his arm around my shoulders, holding me up, and say "We're fine. Deidre's just not feeling so good. I'd better take her home."
My memories of the sex are almost completely gone. I remember it hurting, and that I never had any choice in the matter. I remember waking up from some sort of daydream to see him putting on his pants and getting up to take a phone call. I remember him pinning me to the bed, spitting in my face, more accusations of cheating.
He was my first time.
Finally I went to college, and he followed me there. He enrolled in the school, he declared the same major as me, and he was in a few of my classes. He couldn’t, however, follow me home – my parents had arranged for me to live in student housing, and blissfully, I was placed in an all-girl dormitory with restricted visitation hours for the opposite sex. I made girlfriends, and for the first time outside of Springfield, I began to talk about Earl, and the relationship. I learned that I was far from the only person to live through such things. I learned that, if I needed help, I could call my girlfriends. I learned that I had a safe place to hide.
It took a while to completely extricate him from my life. I began a relationship with another man – realizing Earl’s worst fear. I left him for that man, and though we tried to be friends, Earl never stopped trying to get me alone in his room. Once or twice I found myself there, after drinking too much at a party, and to this day I am not sure how I escaped. At some point I began to scream and shout at him, rather than dissolve into tears and a low-level unconsciousness. And then, one night, I called the police.
Earl called me up late at night. I had been on the phone with my new boyfriend for a while. I’m sure Earl had been trying to call, and couldn’t get through, and he knew who I was talking to. So when the line was free, he called and said that he had swallowed a bottle of aspirin and was calling to say goodbye. He was allergic to aspirin, and apparently, this could kill him. What did I know? He called with a suicide threat – so I called the police. I told them exactly what he had told me, and I gave a complete description. Earl had said he was calling from a pay telephone at a certain location, so I gave that to the police as well.
The police called me back. “He’s not at the payphone, ma’am. We’re looking in the local bars and alleys, but we’re not finding him. Can you tell us where he lives?”
I gave the police his home address. They found him there, clean and sober and right as rain. The police called me back. “He’s fine, ma’am. He says the two of you broke up today, and that you did this to get back at him.”
I was stunned. “And you believe him and not me?” I asked. “Well, ma’am, he looks just fine to us,” the cop replied. “Well, I guess that’s what he would say. So I guess you’re going to believe him,” I said. We hung up.
The next day, Earl was waiting for me outside the building where I had class. “You know you woke up everyone in my house last night. Everyone’s pretty pissed at you.”
“You called me and said you were committing suicide,” I responded. “What did you think I would do?”
“I didn’t think you’d call the cops,” Earl replied, taking a puff on his cigarette.
“Now you know,” I said.
“Here,” Earl grunted. He handed me some CD’s of mine that he had borrowed. “I think there’s some more of your stuff at the house.”
“Keep it,” I said. “In fact, keep these too.”
I went to class, and he wandered off, across the quad.
Earl was flunking out, and eventually he formally withdrew from school. He kept an apartment in town though, and started dating someone, an overweight blonde girl. I found out through a mutual friend that this girl was seen with black eyes and bruises frequently. I made every effort to reach out to her, to tell her not to listen to his lies and his crap.
Eventually, incredibly, through the efforts of a string of acquaintances, this girl called me. “I just wanted you to know that I don’t hate you, and I’m not plotting anything against you,” she said. “I don’t even know you – but I know Earl.”
“I’m so glad you called me,” I said. “Please, can we meet somewhere?”
“No,” she said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. If he even finds out we talked…”
“He’s a liar,” I said to her. “He’s been lying to the both of us for a long time. I’ve known him for years. Don’t believe anything he says to you.”
“I know, he lies,” she said. “He lies a lot.”
“Please, can you call me again? Call me tomorrow night. I really think we should talk. Or we can meet somewhere, anywhere, it doesn't have to be my dorm. Someone else's place.”
I got her to agree to call me back the next day, but she never did. I never heard from her again.
About six months later, I saw Earl for the last time. I was walking home from a late class, and he pulled up in a beat-up Bronco-type vehicle. He stepped out of the car and stumbled over to me. “Miss me?” he said, with that terrible smile. The smell of alcohol on his breath nearly knocked me over.
“Let me go,” I choked, realizing his fingers were digging into my tricep. He dragged me toward the car. Two other guys were in the car, whooping and laughing. “My Wife!” He bellowed at the car.
I kicked, I dropped my books, I kicked again, and I ran. “Fucking BITCH” I heard behind me, and the sound of the car revving. I ran until I reached my dorm room. I locked myself into my room on the 17th floor and cried for hours.
At some point, a boy I had been casually dating on campus knocked on my door. I tried to tell him what had happened to me, but he looked at me like I was nuts. I don’t think he believed me. In retrospect, it’s hard to believe it myself. It’s like a nightmare, like something out of a bad movie. I wish it hadn’t really happened. I had nightmares about being grabbed and dragged into dark places for about five years afterward. I'd wake up feeling my arms and legs being ripped out of their sockets and a stinging throbbing pain between my legs. I'd stare into my dark bedroom and shake until my body gave out, and I fell asleep again.
I went to the student counseling center, and began to write. I wrote poems and short stories about violence, about hitting people with steel pipes, about bashing in skulls. I wrote poems about witches casting evil spells on me, throwing cloaks of fear over me that were so heavy I was pinned to the ground. I dreamed of death and churches with gaping holes in the floor, and I wrote that down too. I dreamed of jumping off of buildings, and wrote about that, my dreams of flying, flying, flying, and finally of dying. Finally, years later, I wrote a poem about throwing myself into traffic in Manhattan.
However, I was never truly suicidal. I was a pain addict. And it wasn’t because of Earl that I wanted a grand death. It wasn’t Earl that made me feel dead inside. Earl introduced me to greed, to pain, and to the need to control others. He did not, however, teach me what loss was. I never grieved the loss of Earl. I never missed him, I never thought of him, and I never once regretted the many times I tried to get rid of him. The day I kicked him out of my life was a triumph. Losing Earl was no loss. Losing Earl made me feel alive, made me want to live.
It was the boy I met at that party, so long ago, when I was that pretty just-turned-eighteen-year-old girl in the coolest jacket ever, who made me feel dead.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Today on the Job
This is like a Monty Python skit.
The first three items I open are drafts of a letter. This letter is a response to someone else's letter. I have not yet come across a final verion of this letter. Realizing I still have over two hunderd documents to examine, I title the document "Draft of response to Mr Xs Letter of 4-21-05."
The next item I open, titled "scan0001.pdf," is a 397 page document called "Form T3," which makes reference to some sort of finance deal. I realize as I scroll through that Form T3 is really only one page, and the rest is suporting documents.
The second Item I open, cryptically titled "cvs051122" contains the resumes of two people being considered for positions on the board of directors of one of the parties involved. From over one year ago.
This is what I did, all day today, from about 9am to 4:30. From 8:30 to 9, I met with an analyst about another deal, which is proving to be nowhere near the headache. How I long to return to that other deal. It will be my reward when I finish this one.
I might add that I normally begin my day at 8, but there were three traffic snarls on my way in, so my 30-45 minute morning commute took ninety minutes this morning. So I started the day on a low. Thank g-d for the free coffee.
For the sake of specificity, from about 9 to about 2:15 I was downloading these documents, knowing this analysis and ID process would follow. These documents were all attachments to various emails which were forwarded to me. The analyst involved literally forwarded to me everything in her email box containing the name of the deal. I received over 200 emails. Each email had at least one attachment - most had three or more. Some had ten. I retrieved around 300 documents in all. In no particular order, with names like "pdf051024" and "nameofdeal.xls."
Most of these attachments had similar, if not identical names. In order to save each attachment to the target location, it was necessary for me to first open each attachment, examine it, and create a unique name. Thank g-d for my literacy, and imagination.
So the actual process with which I begin this narrative has, in fact, only been ongoing for less than two hours. I am, however, already wondering how I can get this window open. I realize that I am only on the third floor, so in case the fall doesn't release me from this agony, I have equipped myself with a plastic knife from the cafeteria so that I may slit my wrists on the way down. I must be sure to jump headfirst.
The first three items I open are drafts of a letter. This letter is a response to someone else's letter. I have not yet come across a final verion of this letter. Realizing I still have over two hunderd documents to examine, I title the document "Draft of response to Mr Xs Letter of 4-21-05."
The next item I open, titled "scan0001.pdf," is a 397 page document called "Form T3," which makes reference to some sort of finance deal. I realize as I scroll through that Form T3 is really only one page, and the rest is suporting documents.
The second Item I open, cryptically titled "cvs051122" contains the resumes of two people being considered for positions on the board of directors of one of the parties involved. From over one year ago.
This is what I did, all day today, from about 9am to 4:30. From 8:30 to 9, I met with an analyst about another deal, which is proving to be nowhere near the headache. How I long to return to that other deal. It will be my reward when I finish this one.
I might add that I normally begin my day at 8, but there were three traffic snarls on my way in, so my 30-45 minute morning commute took ninety minutes this morning. So I started the day on a low. Thank g-d for the free coffee.
For the sake of specificity, from about 9 to about 2:15 I was downloading these documents, knowing this analysis and ID process would follow. These documents were all attachments to various emails which were forwarded to me. The analyst involved literally forwarded to me everything in her email box containing the name of the deal. I received over 200 emails. Each email had at least one attachment - most had three or more. Some had ten. I retrieved around 300 documents in all. In no particular order, with names like "pdf051024" and "nameofdeal.xls."
Most of these attachments had similar, if not identical names. In order to save each attachment to the target location, it was necessary for me to first open each attachment, examine it, and create a unique name. Thank g-d for my literacy, and imagination.
So the actual process with which I begin this narrative has, in fact, only been ongoing for less than two hours. I am, however, already wondering how I can get this window open. I realize that I am only on the third floor, so in case the fall doesn't release me from this agony, I have equipped myself with a plastic knife from the cafeteria so that I may slit my wrists on the way down. I must be sure to jump headfirst.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Busy Women...
To the tune of "Pretty Women" from Sweeney Todd:
Busy Women
Overdo it
think we're super-human
Busy women
never sleeping
never eating
Busy women
sprinting between meetings
They're always on the phone
shouting in their headsets
They're never alone
Busy women
inhale breakfast
Advil with their coffee
No vacations
without laptops
busy women
busy women!
Scheduling appointments to
do their nails and hair
texting freinds and family
hoping they still care
oh busy women
it gets lonely
lunching on elevators
Gym on Sunday
Sex on... someday
Before you know it
Her face will show it
eyes are red and purple
caffeine twitches too
How did my niece get so big?
six years have felt like two
Busy women
dream of beaches
dream of marriage
children
Busy women... frightened women
stubborn women... Brilliant women...
Watch our friends get married while
our gay friends dye our hair
All those men our friends want us to meet
...are they still there?
Busy women
Take it easy
Life's shorter than you think
Cut your hours
take vacations
Call your parents
hire assistants
You can do it
Busy women
Take your life back,
busy women!
While you're still young,
busy women
This is what you
worked for, women!
Happy women, friends and lovers,
Moms and Grandmas,
aunts and teachers,
Busy women, all...
Busy Women
Overdo it
think we're super-human
Busy women
never sleeping
never eating
Busy women
sprinting between meetings
They're always on the phone
shouting in their headsets
They're never alone
Busy women
inhale breakfast
Advil with their coffee
No vacations
without laptops
busy women
busy women!
Scheduling appointments to
do their nails and hair
texting freinds and family
hoping they still care
oh busy women
it gets lonely
lunching on elevators
Gym on Sunday
Sex on... someday
Before you know it
Her face will show it
eyes are red and purple
caffeine twitches too
How did my niece get so big?
six years have felt like two
Busy women
dream of beaches
dream of marriage
children
Busy women... frightened women
stubborn women... Brilliant women...
Watch our friends get married while
our gay friends dye our hair
All those men our friends want us to meet
...are they still there?
Busy women
Take it easy
Life's shorter than you think
Cut your hours
take vacations
Call your parents
hire assistants
You can do it
Busy women
Take your life back,
busy women!
While you're still young,
busy women
This is what you
worked for, women!
Happy women, friends and lovers,
Moms and Grandmas,
aunts and teachers,
Busy women, all...
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