kiwifruit's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- OCD. OCD. OCD. I am trying to talk myself into going to the gym�I am sitting here smoking a cigarette�I highly doubt I will be successful in my persuasion. Usually I head right from work to the gym, that way I have no time to kick off my shoes and get comfy. But I my mind was already set on a no-gym evening. I was supposed to meet the old boss-woman for a cocktail after work and so I didn�t pack a bag. Then it (literally) rained on our plans of taking the dogs to the Boat Basin. Now here I am feeling like a lost soul�home so early with nothing to do. Should go to gym. Should go to gym. Should go to gym. Will most certainly feel like an awful, foul, lazy, large bottomed person if I don�t. Eh�feck it. I�ll go to the gym. But I don�t want to. But I should. But I really don�t want to. But I really should. Okay. I�ll go. See what happens? I end up going to the gym and then I�m caught in a big mind-numbing vortex for days on end. Can�t write, can�t sleep can only obsessively stress out about things beyond my control. Sounds like fun doesn�t it? Note to self: definitely need to start doing yoga again. It�s Sunday now and I stayed in last night. Woke up this morning feeling like Wonder Woman (ahh�the odd absence of a hangover on a Sunday morn). Went to the gym, then went to Barnes & Noble and bought three books, one for each of my identities: Self loathing neurotic � I�m embarrassed to admit this but, I purchased Dr. Phil�s book on finding one�s �real self�. I don�t even like Dr. Phil. He horrifies me. Maybe he�ll scare me into submission and I�ll find my true self somewhere in my panties drawer or better yet, with all the rotting veggies in that no-mans land bottom drawer of the fridge. Literary Bookish type � �White Teeth� because it�s finally out in paperback and I�m dying to watch the PBS version but I have to read the book too. Also, I want to see what kind of novel sells for three figures after only the first three chapters are written. Beach blanket book devourer � �The Devil Wore Prada�. I mean, you didn�t actually expect me not to read this did you?! Please it�s like 300 pages of �Page Six� or �Chic Happens� I�ll be in heaven. After my little book buying spree I came home and began maniacally cleaning. Here�s my problem, I can live in filth or I can live in pristine cleanliness, I can�t live in anything in between. Once I start I�m like a demon possessed, I can�t stop until every window sill, every inch of floor space, every closet is immaculate. If I�m cleaning the bathroom I�ve got to get every nook and cranny, every crevice. I literally spend an hour in there bending like a pretzel to get the base of the toilet from every angle. BTW, let�s talk about the base of the freakin� toilet for a sec shall we? There is nothing, nothing, nothing more disgusting than cleaning this. It is my opinion that men should be in charge of cleaning the toilet. They�re the ones that dribble and splash nastiness all over the damn place. It�s disgusting really when you think about it. The base of the toilet should be cleaned every day. But of course, it always goes at least a week, which means that you are stuck face to face with hairballs and dust and week old piss. Ewwww. The quandary is, most men are oblivious to what goes on with the toilet. They would just leave it for months, years even if left to their own devices. Brrrr. Midway through my Tasmanian Devil spin through the apartment I stopped myself though. I will have to live with the dust on the window sills (which is excessive due to the open windows and our proximity to Houston Street) for another day. I needed some time to unwind, or at least attempt to unwind before the work week starts again. The more I accomplish, the more I am reminded of everything that�s not being accomplished. Really, I�d be a much more relaxed person if I never did anything at all. My best friend and I have a similar sickness. I don�t mean to make fun of people who suffer from real psychiatric problems here, but often I�ll call her on a Sunday to find that she is scrubbing the grout in her shower with an old toothbrush and we�ll start chanting to eachother �OCD. OCD.� It�s our little mantra. That and �OEA. OEA.� Which is reserved for those moments when we feel compelled to eat entire pizzas or burritos the size of our heads. Sigh. Let�s see, what else? I have vowed to start writing more again. Even though it brings so many of my anxieties bubbling to the surface, it also allows me to laugh at myself, which is, I think, healthy. At least I think so. Maybe I�ll become a raging lunatic. Oh, wait, I�m already pretty damn close. Some nights I get home, do the gym, do dinner, clean a bit, maybe even tackle some laundry and then crawl into bed with a book way later than I had originally planned (is it even humanly possible to do everything one needs to and still get 8 hours of sleep?) I think not. Any-hoo, I�ll lay in bed and be wracked with guilt because all day long I�ve seen things that have inspired me to write little ditties or entire stories in my head. I swear that the moment I get home I�ll record it all and then there�s the gym, and laundry, and maybe even �The Bachelor� to distract me and I end up losing it all. Then I get into bed and fuss and fret over it. This can�t be good. Not that I think anyone really cares to read all my drivel, but when it�s stuck in my head it feels like a horrible waste, there�s too much other crap in there fighting for space. My head is too full. Okay, I�m going to go crack one of my new books now. Chances are I�ll go straight for the trash�it�s Sunday after all. The day of rest. La di da. La di da. 5:50 p.m. - 2003-05-11 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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