Day Six - Clean and Sobered

I am a 36 year-old married woman with two cats/demons and I live like a college student. It’s not so much that I am having keggers every night, but more so a general and perpetual state of clutter. Before the husband deployed to Iraq and we lived together, things were still a little underdeveloped on the tidiness front, but I’ve taken it to new and unforeseen heights. The mess that I am capable of generating in even a short time span is really quite impressive. Mother Nature could learn a few things from me about catastrophic destruction. It’s not that I don’t want to live in a clean house or didn’t have a good example. My Mother cleaned constantly and cleaned both kitchen and bath nightly in addition to weekly household strip downs. At least I inherited her love of baking, right?

I know I am a slob. I have always been a slob even as a small child. I frequently rush from one thing to another leaving tasks in an unfinished state of chaos. Either that, or in the process of cleaning or putting clothes away I will suddenly develop an overwhelming urge to spend 4.5 hours scrubbing, organizing and redoing a closet. Somehow on the way to accomplishing normal chores like laundry or unloading the dishwasher I leave a path of domestic wreckage even a teenager would admire. My clothes are strewn about my bedroom, hanging from every knob, hook, chair, and lamp. The dresser and footboard have been converted into clothing staging areas and there is a pile of clothes needing to be hung up sitting on a chair right next to the closet. I can be so close to task completion, then run out focus and forget to finish the job.

Contributing to the problem is that I kind of like clutter. Clutter feels homey to me and cozy. I dream of a large, spacious penthouse apartment with modern furnishings and a minimalist appearance, but unfortunately I am a bit of pack rat and sentimentalist so sparse isn’t really my forte. Because I have so many trinkets I’ve saved or collected over the years, I love buying stuff to put stuff into. If it is a decorative box, jar, or bowl I want it and I will fill it. There is no end to my collection of things I cannot bear to part with or home décor accessories I’ve picked up at one store or another just waiting for the right shelf or color scheme to display it. I’ve gone through color phases, neutral phases, glass phases, bamboo phases, metal phases . . . you name it and I will produce a collection of accessories ready to decorate for it.

In between the clutter, I have dust and cat hair and scraps of paper with things written on them that I then immediately misplace or forget what it’s for and keep in case I remember. The irony, is that I really don’t dislike cleaning itself, I just dislike not being able to focus on one specific thing with the intensity I want. When I make the time, I will clean with a determination and thoroughness my Mother would be proud of. Sadly, while there are days my floors are so clean you could eat off them, you may not be able to find a way past the clutter to get to a barren spot. It’s not that I’m a hoarder, we don’t have junk like that. I’m not secretly collecting trash or old cat litter, although with two cats possessing a seemingly unending ability to produce feline waste, there are days when it might appear that way. It’s more that most of my furniture and accessories are a hodge podge collected over the years and lacking a certain unity to bring it all together. I have art from all over the world sitting on top of bookcases just begging for the chance to hang on a wall. I have a handmade instrument picked up in Cambodia that is currently in a few pieces scattered about my bedroom. A rug I’m not using is rolled up and stored on the balcony. An antique chair passed down through my family is carefully wrapped in mover’s plastic and awaiting repair for a loose leg. And a few sad remnants of old Ikea furniture still feebly fulfill their purpose while calling out for retirement.

Living alone means no one has to see your dirt and that is freeing in a way. I can take off my clothes before showering and leave them on the floor, then three days later realize I’m still stepping over those same clothes as I get in and out of the shower.  A book, finally read lay on the bench in the foyer where it has been for six weeks, just three feet from a bookcase. It’s not that I’m lazy, it’s that I don’t care. We don’t have children so there are no little fingers getting into things or dropping pacifiers and putting them right back in their mouths. I just don’t have the motivation. When I know people will be coming over I will make the effort to both clean and organize and each and every time, I marvel at how great it makes me feel to be living like an adult and then within a day I’m walking past what could pass as the discarded itinerary of the previous 24 hours.

I want to be neat and tidy. I’d like to have people come to my home without either needing three hours notice or a blindfold. I don’t know why it is so difficult to pick up after myself when I seemed so hasty to chastise my husband for being messy as I picked up his shoes/glass/jacket/beer bottle. Spiraling out of control the last six months I continually tell myself that this will be the week I get control of the clutter, only to find myself making the same speech a week later. I don’t even have a job to use as an excuse for why I cannot make the time. Now, however, as employment looms 48 hours away, I think I’ve hit rock bottom. This morning, while sipping tea on the balcony facing peacefully away from the clutter of the interior, I looked down at my feet to see one of my cats walking about with a pair of dirty underwear stuck to her fur. That’s really too much even for me. Sadly, the cat’s left hind quarters had to be shaved, but what choice did I have, bathing a cat is so much work.

Day Five: Man-scaping, Black Balls and Other Truths

I am the person that routinely reveals uncomfortably personal details about myself. I like to say that I see where the line is drawn in the sand and then leap over it. Sometimes I just like to push the envelope.  Last night for instance, I was having dinner and drinks with the girls when the topic of discussion came round to the lady garden and man-scaping.  I mentioned that when the husband came home for two weeks on leave I feared he might look like an Iraqi south of his belt line. “Poor guy,” I said, “he’s been at war for six months, has all of two weeks off before heading back for another six months and the first thing I think is, ‘I hope they have some sort of weed whacker apparatus that he used before getting on a plane’.”

This is neither flattering to the husband, nor to myself, but it was timely to the conversation at hand and true. I find myself doing this all the time and have discerned that there are three classifications of listener. There are those that are slightly horrified and become uncomfortable, slowly or sometimes abruptly easing out of conversation and avoiding me at all future engagements. Other people find it amusing or even interesting, but adopt the assumption that I will be incapable of subtle or deep conversations and write me off as a casual friend for rowdy nights out. Finally, (and this last group is my favorite) there are the people who love me even more because of my honesty and recognize that it is but one aspect of my personality and one that I can control when the circumstances call for it.

I’ve never been quite sure why I do this. Part of it is that I’m a little class clown. I like to make people laugh and since I don’t actually know any jokes, sometimes shock and awe can have the same effect. Other times it is truly because I think it’s artificial the way we dance around topics, everyone afraid to say what’s really on the their mind, but fascinated when someone else dares to. When I was in college I took an anatomy class. I was thrilled find out that even in first level anatomy we would have two cadavers. One was female and the other, an older male. On the first day of class, the thing that struck me most was that the male cadaver was in possession of black-purple tinted testicles. I was fascinated and vexed by why this might be, but because no one ever commented on it, I assumed it was normal. Finally, however, on the last day that class met before finals I spoke up and asked our professor in my most professional and serious voice, “Dude, why are his balls black?” There followed an audible gasp by a few of my classmates and more than a few nervous giggles. Afraid I had crossed some horrific line of suitable behavior I was about to try to take it back when Dr. Elvis (his first name, cannot remember his last) replied “You know, I’ve been trying to figure that out all semester”! Sometimes it just takes someone brave or stupid enough to say what everyone is thinking, to open the door.

You can also use this tactic to close doors. Bold statements are like personal walls you erect to momentarily distract someone from reaching deeper, to discover truly personal information. I can talk about sex all day, a topic most find too personal and yet you will never scratch the surface of who I am emotionally. You want to know how many partners? Fine. What’s my favorite position? Done. My thoughts on blowing Little Boy’s blue? Anytime. Just please do not ask me about making love or emotionally connecting with my husband. That is too personal; that is way too vulnerable. Everyone has sex, but how you connect through intimacy is distinctly individual. So sure, I blow him and I’m fantastic at it, but you’ll never hear about the moments before and after when words and actions give way to true connection. To me that’s what’s private, that’s what’s personal.

A recurring consequence I run into from putting it all out there, is that I often cultivate a reputation for being callous. One such example is my continual complaints about children. I have even called Mothers who pop out four or more children in a short span of time a “breeder” – which by the way they seem to dislike. There is nothing more annoying than a crying child on a plane or a parent who lets their toddler run all over the place when you are just trying to do your shopping or standing in line for customs after an eight hour flight. Sure, they are adorable in photos, in a stroller, or muzzled, but if they’re flopping themselves all over the floor I might be tempted to kick them and I’ve announced this on more than one occasion. When strangers ask if I have children, my go to response is usually, “God, no”! True, this is my attitude frequently and I’ve said this same thing or variations of it many, many times to vastly different audiences, but it belies the fact that I love children. I used to want five, now at 36 I am just hoping for an egg or two that has not completely spoiled, should we decide to make an omelet. It’s kind of the opposite of small talk. I bluntly state my opinions, leading others to believe that’s all there is, but the truth behind those declarative statements is always more nuanced.

People are rushed. We don’t like taking too much time to get to know someone and we are made discomfited by those who thrust their opinions or personal information upon us. This is why I never trust the quiet ones. They may seem shy or innocent, but you can bet your ass they are taking in everything and silently summing up not only what you say, but also what you leave out. They are the best judges of character because they watch and they listen, so to a vulnerability averse girl like me, quiet people are the most dangerous element in the room. They hear what you’re not saying. I realize my tendency to divulge too much is my own downfall when it comes to offending people, but it’s doubtful I will change after all these years. So maybe you should make an effort to truly know someone and look past the polite small talk or declarations at a party to find out who someone truly is. If that seems like too much work, at least don’t assume you know who they are based on a shocking announcement confided between shots at a bar.

Day 13: Natural Gas Resource

I broke a cardinal rule of girldom. I not only experienced dual-purpose gaseousness, I enjoyed it. In fact, was once a pretty gassy girl. Somewhere between the ages of 1 and 32 I developed an unnatural propensity to release gas through both burping and farting. I know, I hate both of those words too, they just sound gross for some reason, but until someone comes up with better terms that do not make me sound like a five year-old, I'm going with the classics. What is really weird, is that I never used to have this issue in any way for the first 32 years of my life. I neither remember feeling the need to, nor thinking it was okay to do so, especially around other people or a date. I suppose a few times in my life, it did bubble forth, but I tamped it down with clenched butt cheeks or a complicated esophageal maneuver that stopped it in its tracks. The point is, no one ever had first hand experience with my bodily emissions.

I don't know what happened to change this, I just know that sometime before I met my husband I began to babble like a brook. This being a new experience for me the act became a new and interesting pastime. I was like a school child fascinated with my own gaseous abilities and with each new eruption I became even more amused. I tried to burp louder and longer, testing the limits of my newfound talent. Sadly, I never became accomplished enough in these pursuits to manipulate my gas in any productive way, such as burping the alphabet or singing the Star Spangled Banner.

I guess all people go through this phase, it’s just that for most people it happens around the age of eight. True, I tend to run late, so maybe this time I was just really, really late. Whatever the reason, it sort of happened and then I was either unable or unwilling to stop it. It’s not like I was blowing out the room when in public or anything, but when at home alone or with the man candy I was less than shy. My last boyfriend before the husband used to refer to me as his natural gas resource. Cute, huh?

Looking back now that I’m past it (thanks to more exercise and less dairy), what is most shocking to me is how firmly I believed that it was not okay to let myself go appearance wise, but that this was perfectly excusable. As if my gaining 20 pounds or not doing my hair was any worse than trying to start burping contests with the husband. I’m pretty sure he’d rather I just put my hair in a ponytail if it meant I’d stop stinking up the bedroom at night. At the very least, I think he could have dealt with it as a physical ailment, but since each new performance was accompanied by schoolchild-like giggling, it became a dead giveaway that this was simply a choice I was making.

In the months to follow I surprisingly tired of my own immaturity. This is surprising only because I have lots of other bad or slightly crazy habits that still seem totally fine to me. Referring to myself in the third person while talking out loud to myself for instance or using any phallic object to mime humping someone still holds a certain allure, but the natural release of bodily gases suddenly became tiresome. So I was a gassy bitch. Big deal. It shouldn’t make me any worse than your Dad who thought it was fine to sit in his chair in a pair of baggy jockey shorts farting with abandon while you sat not six feet away.

Thankfully, I’m not gassy anymore, which I’m sure the husband will be glad to hear before he gets back from that whole war thing. Hopefully, I’ll also be able to keep off those 20 pounds and find the time to do my hair to make his homecoming really special. Girls aren’t supposed to do any of the things I’m writing about, let alone talk about them. I guess maybe that’s why it was so freeing to actually let it out, so to speak. It wasn’t very ladylike, my Mother certainly would not have been proud, but it felt so rebellious! I got to be the ten year-old boy I’d always wanted to be and I’ve gotta tell you, it was pretty awesome.

Day Four - Fashion Abreast

From here on out, I refuse to be ashamed of my breasts. Ask any girl with size C’s or larger and she will tell you that boobs are a mixed blessing. Women want them, men drool over them, and girls stuff their shirts and dream about getting them. Boobs are kind of a big deal, so why then am I expected to either hide them or pretend it’s okay for you to stare at them? I spend half my time trying to boost them up, bending over to lift and then lower into my push up bra and the other half in search of tank tops that lay flat enough to wear under everything so my cleavage line doesn’t offend other people. No more. Today I vow to let the girls be who they want to be and if that offends your sense of decorum then stop looking.

I didn’t always have breasts. I remember when I was thirteen and “going” with Robert Freeman who was one grade higher than me. It was the last day of school before summer break. I would be coming back an eighth grader and Robert would be moving on to high school. The last thing he ever said to me was that he would not miss me because I had a flat chest. At 13 that one really stung, not because he wouldn’t miss me, but because he judged me for something I had not noticed myself. I remember being ashamed of my chest after he said that. Before that day I was not one of those girls that worried about not getting my boobs, honestly I didn’t care all that much and I wasn’t a girly girl anyway. His words made me suddenly aware of my body in a new way and I did not like what I saw. This was the moment when my body consciousness really kicked in, setting into motion what turned into a 23-year obsession.

These days I bounce between a C and a D cup depending on diet, exercise and if I’m taking birth control. I admit it is great to know you can fill out a top and I have definitely used cleavage to my advantage more than once when otherwise feeling fat or insecure. Not only does sexy sell, it keeps people from noticing when your bloated tummy can pass for a late term pregnancy. I don’t remember when the girls moved in upstairs, I just know that I went from an A to a C seemingly overnight and never looked back. In high school I spent lots of time trying to de-emphasize them and luckily the bras back then were not overly supportive, so a certain amount of deflation was a given. 

Today I revel in the push-up bra. I have them in every color and design imaginable (in both C and D). The problem with perking up the girls, or really just in having them at all, is that boobs have kind of gone out of fashion. Women’s clothing today stresses a more flowing silhouette exemplified by the 5’7” and over girls who possess neither hips nor tits. The athletic and willowy bodies so admired on models and actresses have made their way into the mainstream, bustling past the busty in their form flattering tanks and bohemian peasant blouses.

A recent shopping trip to an upscale mall proved over and over again that if I wanted to be fashionable, the girls were going to be left out in the cold, literally. Nothing fits properly. A tank top that looks like a chic, casual summer top on a friend looks nearly pornographic on the mammary gifted. A button front blouse menaces the bystander, gaping in front and threatening to launch a torpedo-like button assault with every breath. I’ve seen your disapproving looks. I’ve heard the comments. Hell, some of my closest friends have insisted I cover up on occassion. Do you think I’m shopping at a special store? That perhaps there is a “big-boobed ‘ho” store somewhere that all chesty women are shopping at? I wear the same clothes you wear, they just look different on me. The same top that you could wear to a PTA meeting I could wear onstage at a strip club.

Why should the burden to dig up some sort of cleavage camouflage always fall to me? A v-neck camisole purchased at The Gap is not intended to invoke talks about “those kinds of women” between Mothers and their young children. Yesterday I wore such a shirt and I tore through three drawers of bras to find one that downplayed the cleavage and enhanced my sag factor. Really? While other women are getting breast enhancements I am trying to lie flat? Often, before spending time with more conservative friends, I work myself into a self-esteem bashing frenzy while trying on dozens of shirts to find one that is more “The Loft” than aloft. I actually have felt BAD about myself because I have breasts and I don’t want to wear a turtleneck in the summer.

I joke about my cleavage, but in reality I want to be an A-cup, I always have. No stress over how my breasts make me look, no more $45 bras, no more fashionable tops I can’t squeeze into. I’m a relatively small-framed girl and while my torso says small, the girls scream large. It’s not easy to shop and I usually prefer to order online, trying things on in private and returning what doesn’t fit, rather than deal with the humiliation of getting stuck in a shirt and needing the attendant to help me out (yes, that’s actually happened). I am just as self-conscious of my endowments as some flat-chested girls are about their Kiera Knightley like frames. Celebrities are a great example. Women in Hollywood with boobs are treated like pariahs. They are the predators or bad girls compared to their svelte peers. Why should I feel l bad because I have breasts? Why should I worry about hiding them or that they might make others uncomfortable? I didn’t buy them, mine came with the package.

One final note, pregnant women newly fascinated and enamored with their sudden breast enhancements do not cover up with crewnecks or ponchos. They wear the same dresses and scoop-neck tops we all do, except now their girls have come out to see the light. What’s really ironic, is that no one calls a pregnant woman who bares a little cleavage a slut, and yet she’s the only one you know for certain has actually been getting any action. 

Day Three- I Was Kicked by an Old Man with a Cane

I was once kicked by an old man with a cane. I admit that this attack by a senior citizen was not completely unprovoked and while I maintain my innocence, I might have ever so gently nudged him with the business end of my umbrella. Even so, a slight poke with a rain stick is hardly worthy of inciting the overly aggressive kicking maneuver this senior pulled. 

It happened a couple of years ago on the 6 train in Manhattan. Anyone who has ever taken mass transit regularly will understand the kind of frustration a crowded commute can invoke and those familiar with the NYC subway system will know that the green line on the east side of the city is particularly egregious. The main problem with the 4, 5, and 6 trains or the "green line" is that it is the only train line that runs down the east side of the island to serve twice as many people. It is not uncommon to watch three trains pass by before you can actually fit onto one due to the overcrowding. Once inside, you are indelicately shoved within breath freshener range of strangers. I jokingly refer to it as the morning grope, because you stand flush against other riders on all sides while you bump and weave with the train. It's akin to being felt up by a first date, but without the accompanying guilt.

Because this train runs straight down to the financial district, you have a disproportionate number of grumpy, hurried professionals, with briefcases and already sweat-dampened suits squeezing into what is essentially a tiny compact hallway on rails. Occasionally on these rides with 100 of your newest, closest friends, a scuffle will break out. In my case, I was inadvertently bumping up against an elderly gentleman standing directly behind me. Clearly someone should have offered this fellow a seat, but there are no stingier subway riders than the businessmen who feel entitled to a seat, while the rest of the train is left to stand, huddled together like the poor masses begging for a farthing. These are also the same jokers who will self-importantly prop their briefcase on their lap as they spread their legs just enough to keep anyone else from utilizing the space on the bench beside them, only to take out a copy not of the Financial Times, but of the latest Harry Potter book. Now I don't need one more person (including my brilliant husband) to tell me how well-written these Potter books are, the bottom line is that if you're over the age of fourteen, in an expensive suit, and on your way to Wall Street, maybe Harry Potter shouldn't be a part of your self-righteous morning ritual.

At some point during the on and off reshuffling of passengers this older man and I sort of stumbled into one another and my leg accidentally got entangled with his cane, possibly knocking him off balance. I can only assume that to him this transgression represented a personal attack. Perhaps to him I was an ageist and I was calling him out for riding with morning commuters, making it abundantly clear this doddering geezer was no longer among my working brethren? I can only guess at his mindset, but what happened next was that he snatched his cane away nearly knocking me down in the process. He accompanied this discreet move with a profanity that sounded a lot like “dumb, bitch-whore.” I was greeted with this delightful moniker just as I was turning to apologize to him, but before I could get out “I’m sorry” he also elbowed me in the side. 

The responsible, civically minded thing to do in such a situation would be to chalk this up to morning grumpiness or even senility, but I decided he had a personal vendetta against me and the logical next step would be to antagonize him further. So I kind of smacked him in the leg with my umbrella. It wasn’t a hard hit, I wasn’t trying to take him out of the game or anything, I just felt it necessary to advise him, via my gentle leg tap, that further abuse on his behalf would not be tolerated. Also, at some point you have to stop hiding behind your possible senility and senior angst and be responsible for your own behavior, right? This gentleman clearly was failing at proper social behavior and why should I suffer? After all, I had a job to get to and it was Monday on a steaming hot July morning. The dampness of the morning rain perfectly matched the 95% humidity of the day, creating a sticky, unbearably oppressive soup-like atmosphere. So I don’t know about you, but when it’s hot, humid, smelly and 7:30am I am not in a mood to be generous. This geezer better watch whom he’s calling a dumb, bitch-whore!

Over the last few years I have thought about what happened next with alternate bouts of shame and amusement. In a normal setting, I would not only never be rude to a member of the geriatric set, but I doubt I would be faced with an abusive senior in the first place. You get caught up in the momentum around you and before you know it, you’re behaving in a manner so foreign to you, that you barely recognize it as your own. This is where I found myself when I unthinkingly tapped the old guy in the leg with my umbrella. It’s not right, it’s not respectable, it’s not even me, but it was real. Real in a way overly thought out behavior never is.

Minutes later, as I was politely pushing my way off the overcrowded cattle car the NYC transit authority refers to as a train, I felt a sharp, quick pain to my shin. The pain surprised me, but nearly as much as the sight of the old guy retracting his leg and redistributing the weight he placed on his cane. It didn’t matter that he started our grudge match, the laws of nature reached out smacked me back to reality. You don’t hit old people; you don’t say mean things to them. You forgive them for their grumpiness because after 70 or more years of making it in the world, they’ve earned it. Not many people can say they’ve been labeled a “dumb, bitch-whore” and kicked by Grandpa. I guess I can cross that one off my bucket list. 

Day Two - How to be a bad friend

I'm a shitty friend, but I always thought I was a good friend. I'm loyal, honest, and a good listener . . . or so I thought. The reality, is that I have a one strike and you're out policy. Betray me or fail to be there when I need you just one time and I'll cut and run. And while I am loyal, it tends to end or at least temporarily be on hold if my own selfish needs get in the way. It has taken me years to realize this about myself, or maybe it has taken years me to evolve into a shitty friend, but either way, shitty I am.

Over the years I have always had one or two best friends and a group of people with whom I was friendly. I never liked the idea of having too large a group of friends and for the most part this system worked for me, that is until I either pissed off or cut off one friend too many. Being alone is just lonely. There's nothing satisfying in finding yourself watching the Superbowl alone or cooking a huge dinner for one on Christmas day. I like to say that I am alone by choice, but really it's out of fear. I don't always feel like I fit in. I hate small talk and feel much more comfortable when issue-based topics are being discussed. At the same time, depending on the group of people I feel alternately uneducated or snobbish.

I had a best friend once that I'd known for years. I always felt her to be judgmental and superior which caused periodic rifts in our friendship, but we always recovered. At least until I betrayed her and pretended it had nothing to do with our friendship, but of course it did. You can't have it both ways. Either we are friends and I cherish your feelings or I don't. I was envious of her life and many of the things she'd been given which blinded me to how hard she actually worked to get where she was. I betrayed her by not being supportive and eventually she tired of it and cut me out of her life. There might be some truth to her being a bit judgmental, but the real problem was my bitterness and jealousy.

This same thing has played out several times in my life with both men and women. I don't want to admit I am wrong or that I don't know something so I act out or put up a defensive wall driving the other person away from me. The comfort I get from telling myself I am the injured party does not nearly make up for the heartbreak of losing a friend I once cherished. I am a flawed person. My fears and low self-esteem have forced me to keep a certain distance from people. I recently confessed a secret to a friend in a very offhand way. I had been keeping this from her not because it was so private, although it certainly was, but because I did not want her to judge me. What I failed to consider in all this, was that if we truly are friends she wouldn't judge me anyway because that's not what friends do. So if I cannot even grasp the basic principles of friendship, how can I hope to be a friend myself?

I'm going to start by being honest. I need to trust more and to listen better. The father of a friend once said, "it's hard to listen when your mouth is open." So maybe I'll stop talking for a while and see what I can learn. Maybe the key to being a better friend is in the not trying. You don't need to impress your friends, you just need to be there. I think I owe a few apologies too, I just hope some of my friends realize that my intent was not to hurt them, it was to hide my own hurt feelings. It seems difficult to make friends as an adult, so I am going to concentrate more on being a friend, on caring about someone else and maybe that will lead to people wanting to be a friend to me.

Day One - Addiction

I secretly want to be an addict. Alcohol or drugs, take your pick, either would work for me. I love the feeling of being high. Not out of your mind, hallucinating high, but that happy buzzed feeling when physical pain can't quite touch you and emotional pain takes on a certain poetic quality. I have all the necessary tools. I come from a long line of alcoholics, I am self-indulgent, self-destructive and emotionally damaged. You'd think addiction would be easy for me, but here's the thing, I suck at it. I am a lousy drunk whose only alternative to the mean belligerence of a drunken stupor is my eventual crumbling into self-pitying tears. Not to mention the fact that I get horrible, two-day hangovers that inevitably morph into a migraine, thus putting me out of commission far longer than a hangover should. There is also the issue of control. I am a control freak. It completely freaks me out when I am unable to discern what is real or to make my body move in the manner I would like it to. Perhaps I actually do need to move across the room in a straight line, this type of simple task should not be so formidable.

All that said, when you lay out all the consequences, you really come up with more positives than negatives. Then again, maybe it's all in how you spin it. So let's break it down.

Family/Friends: An addict frequently disappoints his/her family. There's no sense fighting it, it's just going to happen. They steal, lie, and embarrass those close to them. Dependability is a factor as the addict rarely comes through when needed. Also, inappropriate behavior is practically the hallmark of an addict. If you are having a polite conversation at a party, you can pretty well bet said addict is about to blow that all to hell. Then again, an addict doesn't have to give in to obligations. People close to you tend to expect decorum, or at least civil behavior. They will also expect consideration, courteousness and all out concern for what is happening in their life. When you're an addict you don't have to worry if you'll show the proper level of care and concern. You don't need to worry if your response will be on topic, and should you decide to reveal an uncomfortably personal truth about yourself, you won't remember it enough to be embarrassed once sober. Basically, you can't let the people you love down when no one counts on you to begin with. It's kind of brilliant, really.

Employment: In real life, we are all expected to hold down full-time jobs or to be a full-time parent so that we are living a purposeful and useful life. Newsflash, no one expects a drunk to keep a steady job. So what, you've been late to work 47 times in the last four months, it's par for the course, you're an ADDICT. So what if you sit around in your flannel pants all day eating cookie dough and drinking wine from the bottle, you can still return email and voicemail from home. More importantly, when you do get fired you will inevitably get another job because you have a DISEASE and people will feel sorry for you. People want to believe you are trying to get clean and "helping" you find another job will make them feel better about themselves. I'm sober and have sent out approximately 387 resumes to no avail. I'll tell you this, not a damn person I know feels sorry for my non-addicted ass.

Food/Weight: It's true that the casual drunk or pot-smoker gets the munchies. I have fallen victim all too often to the late night Taco Bell drive-thru after a few hours at the bar. So while you may gain a few pounds due to under the influence snacking, a true addict has a completely different eating habit. Drinkers eat less. They may develop beer bellies, but on average, they drink past their hunger and fill that void with libations instead of Bic Macs. Female alcoholics in particular prefer hard liquor such as vodka, thus keeping their calorie count low. Drug addicts on the other hand experience the most positive weight-loss side effects in that many harder drugs actually speed up your body, helping to maintain lower body fat. Coke or meth-heads also experience increased energy so that completing the necessary tasks on their daily list is less troublesome. I swear, if it weren't for the nasty black teeth, I'd be a meth-head in a second! Skinny, energetic and a relatively cheap high, it's not the worst way to live.

Moods: Sudden mood swings are to be expected from the addict. No one judges you for it or tells you to "smile." I've never heard someone ask an addict if she has a case of the "Mondays." You just get to have your moods, when you have them and everyone around you has to suck it up and deal. I love that part. I also love that you can sit at a bar by yourself drinking whiskey and feeling sorry for yourself without it being the worst thing ever. Sometimes you just get depressed. So what? It happens to all of us, but an addict escapes the questions, the looks of concern, the attempts to cheer you up. Can't a person just be a little blue? Conversely, if you are inappropriately happy people will let you. Sometimes you just don't feel depressed enough to go to a funeral or sit through church services. I still haven't seen "Schindler's List" because I've yet to be so distraught that viewing it wouldn't completely ruin my mood. Maybe I just want to be happy and bounce around for a while. Sue me!

Addiction frees you to be you. No one judges or second guesses your behavior. Moodiness, weight loss, failure to succumb to social obligations are all excused. And you get to switch careers to boot. If only I could learn to hold my liquor and accept poor dental hygiene . . .

Intro to 365 Days of Ame

Today marks day one of my commitment to blog for 365 days straight. Each day I will reveal a truth about myself. Some will be serious, some frivolous, but all will be genuine truths that I have either discovered about myself or from which I have been attempting to hide. My ultimate goal is to get to know myself again. In life, it is easy to behave in one with friends, another with family, and yet still another in the workplace. After years of modifying and checking our own instincts depending on our peers it is easy to lose oneself. Recently, I came to terms with the fact that I don't really recognize that woman in the mirror. I see traces of the innocent, happy girl of 15, the idealistic freedom fighter of 24, the haunted, sad woman of 28, and the suddenly happy optimistic lover at 33. Yes, I see glimpses of all of these women and yet they remain strangers or at least characters in some movie running through my mind. I'd like to put the pieces together and find the woman I am now.

So, for the next 365 days I will be brutally honest with myself in this public forum so that my particularly skilled knack of self-denial and rationalization cannot save me from the truths of myself. I want to live an authentic life and this is how I'm going to start. The only thing I know at this moment is that I need to stop running away from me. So this, is 365 Days of Ame.