Archive for October, 2011

Published by PaintingChef on 24 Oct 2011

Touchy-Feely with a side of Zack Morris. I’m all about making your Monday a little better…

I would, without hesitation, describe myself as a “touchy-feely” person. But what I mean by that is that I’m going to hug you when I see you and when you leave. I’m going to put my hand on your arm when you’re talking if I am feeling compassionate or if I’m telling you something really juicy. It does not, however, mean that I’m not going to tense up a little if you hug me back. I’m one way touchy-feely unless we’re family or you’ve seen me naked and I remember it and don’t regret it. I feel comfortable putting those parameters on my comfort level with you putting your hands on me.

But this has always been because of me, not you and I think it has something to do with feeling comfortable in my own skin. For this reason, I’ve never been all that great at things like massages. (Yes… ALMOST naked but life is all about exceptions, right?) I love a good facial, facials are my crack. (Crack of the very addictive illegal drug variety as opposed to the ass-feature.) I love to lie there and relax and have all the goo cleaned out of my skin and my head rubbed (my eyes just rolled back in my head a little) and just be totally pampered. I can deal with that. But a massage? That’s harder. There is lots of rubbing. On places that I kind of do my best to keep camouflaged under cute dresses and tights with built-in spanx. LOOK BELOW THE KNEE! I HAVE GREAT CALVES AND CUTE SHOES!

Ahem. Sorry. I got kind of scream-y there for a second and really all I’m trying to do is set the scene for my weekend epiphany.

Patrick went out of town for the weekend on some sort of man trip that involved a Winnebago and football and beer and I’m pretty sure some fire. Being the good wife that I am, I sent him with 40 dozen chocolate chip cookies and used every ounce of self-control I could muster to not dye them pink. Just for fun. (Which now kind of explains the 5 hours I spent on the couch Sunday afternoon watching the entire first season on “Franklin & Bash” while drinking an entire gallon of Honeycrisp apple cider and realizing that Zack Morris is still TOTALLY hot. No self-control left. I feel better now. Less slovenly.)

BUT. I decided that I was going to spend Saturday morning at a spa and engage in a little pampering. A facial. A pedicure. And then I decided that I was going to give this whole massage thing another go. I hadn’t had one in almost 10 ten years. No really! Isn’t there a foundation for that? (I kid. I’m an asshole. I know.) In scheduling everything I decided to do the massage first, that way I could get it over with if it was awful and have everything else to look forward to. Yes. That was my philosophy.

And then the masseuse came in and she was so kind and gentle and she started asking me questions before she getting down to the rubbing and suddenly I was crying. And telling her I hadn’t had a massage in almost a decade because I wasn’t good at being touched but that I had lost a lot of weight recently and I wanted to learn to be okay with being touched and loving myself and honoring my body and the whole thing was kind of wonderful. It was like this release of a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

So while I was laying there allowing myself to relax and feel pampered and being okay with my body, I started thinking about the imperfections we have and the way we try to hide them. I kind of meditated on the aspects of myself, physical and mental that are my imperfections and how I don’t like those things about me. But maybe it’s alright to love those things because they are just part of me. I’m messy. I’m rude. I’m not so good at working through a list of things to do. I’m impatient with myself when I can’t figure something out. I get irrationally upset when my husband interrupts me or talks during movies.

But those things are part of me and if I’m going to put so much effort into learning who I really am and LOVING that person, can I really just pretend those parts of me don’t exist? They are okay. Really. Yes, I should work on them. But I should also own them and honor them. It’s okay to not be perfect. It’s okay to allow yourself to be pampered and rewarded even if you aren’t perfect. You don’t have to be a complete and total package to allow yourself good things. I think I’m getting it…

Published by PaintingChef on 06 Oct 2011

Coming (almost) Full Circle.

Hey. Remember how I used to talk about my girly bits all the time? And how it made us want to stick forks in our eyeballs and then everyone would have a party and strangle me with a scarf knitted from my intestines so I would shut the hell up?

Good times, good times.

Let’s do that some more, shall we?

Have you noticed that I’m not getting any younger? THIRTY. FOUR. Despite all my efforts, 34 has not yet been labeled the new 16 (although the brand new zit in my fucking EYEBROW begs to differ) and I am, apparently, climbing on up there in years and thinking that that whole get knocked up thing may have been on the backburner for long enough.

It’s been over a year since I went cold turkey on the on the fertility drugs and it was one of the best things I ever did. I finally decided to focus and me and my health, both physical AND emotional. I think that the official medical term for the state I had reached was cracked out.

Looking back on it now, as a former addict, I see so many similarities. I was burning through our savings (and running up our credit cards) with absolutely no thought of the long term damage I was doing to our financial well-being. Nor did I give a second thought to the toll that my actions were taking on my own body. I paid no attention to the effects of my obsession on my personality, my marriage or my relationships. I was, quite honestly, addicted to the pursuit of pregnancy.

I’m starting to think that I’m ready again though. Not physically, not yet. But emotionally, I can handle this. I want it again. I’m ready. As I mentioned, Patrick and I are going to take a wonderful vacation in June of next year. We’ve decided on going to Mexico and spending a full week at this gorgeous little place. Go ahead. Check it out. Drool a little… I’ll wait. Rumor is that there is a guy with a fish taco cart just roaming around the pool. I plan to meet that guy and make friends.

But I think that when we get back, it will be time for us to try again. And yes. I’m waiting until we get back from an all-inclusive, tequila-laden vacation. I’m selfish like that. I’m taking birth control pills until we leave. This vacation is planned and purchased and we are going and I’m having a big old time and I’m not going to feel guilty about it. The end.

We’ve been married almost 10 years. Nothing about getting me pregnant is going to be easy to begin with but it’s certainly not going to get easier. (Aside from the complication of me being a big old fattie being taken out… which… YAY ME!). I still want to be a mother though. Desperately. I’ve ignored it long enough, tried to bury it by calling it a “shift in priorities” or “attempt to reclaim my own life” or whatever else other warm and fuzzy therapist speak I could come up with. I’ll be a kick ass mom. And Patrick? Man. This non-existent kid is going to be so damn lucky. I have always unapologetically had a very clear preference for a girl and pink and things of the princess-y genre. Still do, can’t lie. But the thought of Patrick with a little mini-him running around and building forts and planning a tree house and playing with a puppy and being made of slugs and snails and puppy dog tails? That kind of gets me in a place that I didn’t even know existed inside of me.

Yeah. That whole kid thing. That’s back.