In my other life, I get to sleep in my own bed.
One hour to go…
If like me, you easily gag at many aspects of the personal blog, stop right here. I do not stand by this post, even as its author. Come back in a few days for normal Gunmetal Geisha fare if you’re a regular, or if you’re new, read this high brow post, or this other frivolous-but-funny one.
“See what you can write in an hour,” said my blogger friend. “Just try it.”
My problem is not the exercise, but that I know I’ll fail at it.
I’ll have to stop writing in fifty-five minutes in order to stay faithful to the challenge. On average, I put in between five and ten hours for a blog post. No wonder I so vehemently shook my head when she first suggested it. No way, it’ll end up being worthless kvetching. At worst, a petty journal entry, at best, all about how the exercise itself isn’t going well.
Then again, I haven’t been writing at all and drastic measures might rev up the stalling brain engine. Allowing my cringey bullshit to pour into sentences in hopes of a breakthrough is, yeah, drastic.
47 minutes left…
Can you believe thirteen minutes have passed? I will see the exercise through, but do I feel inadequate. Thirteen minute of drivel. If I still allowed myself to use the word “retarded,” that’s what I’d be calling myself. Ahem, moving on. And “brain engine”? “Brain” or “engine” would have sufficed. Ridiculous. My vanity will not approve such exposure of my petty side, and how slow and uninspired I can be.
Guess I was wrong about where this would go — it’s going to be a self-bashing session.
Did I mention I’m on an airplane and generally miserable about it? It’s the stale air. And the time zone vortex that changes my phone back and forth to the same two hours for most of the flight. I always end up on the Wifi emailing someone for the actual time, then dismayed to discover I have three or more hours left of flying coffin wretchedness.
Dear — um — diary, I’m heading home to my man, which brought me tears of excitement in between all the tears of sorrow over leaving my father. I only got a day and a half with him. And the baby? I got twelve days with her and my other niece, the one who is my hero. That baby is addictive. She is a ball of candy melting in your arms. Her eyes are kind and her smile can eradicate the miserable grump in anyone.
35 minutes left…
No hope of a writing breakthrough. I could complain about the passengers around me and the noises they make, eating and shuffling around. I can complain about other human beings until I grow old. So I make a point not to. I don’t always succeed, but I’m learning my attitude is a choice (for the most part) and that I’m being masochistic when choosing a scroogey one.
Let me stomp out the scrooge. A few weeks ago, I was asked to join a year-end gratitude blog. The catch — we only had ten minutes to write it. I wanted to do it, but once I knew it would end up lackluster, I gave up. Lackluster not because I had too little to be grateful about in 2015, but because I didn’t have enough time to spin it all into something clever or interesting.
Now, I’ve got ten minutes left for this exercise and I’m resigned to my lack of inspiration. But rather than end on the many things that are irritating the fuck out of me, I’ll give my 2015 gratitude list a shot. The order is random.
9 minutes left…
1- My knees. I have good knees. Active people of all ages complain about their knees. I’ve thrashed mine many times during snowboarding and other activities, yet they’re ox-strong and pain-free. You damn well rock, knees.
2- Salad. It’s been my favorite food since I was a small child. This great love happens to come with a bounty of health benefits, so salad would make my gratitude list every year.
4 minutes left…
3- Meeting my man. Love never fails. People might fail us, but not love. I won’t ever give up on it.
4- The baby (my new niece). Oh my dear god.
5- The baby’s sister: we’ve picked each other as running mates should we run for office. Of course, I had to inform her that I’m an anarchist. Luckily, at the age of nine, she doesn’t know what it means.
6- My family.
7- My friends.
8- Travel, adventure, rain and snow. My city is in a drought, but I hear it’s raining. Rain in Los Angeles means snow in the mountains. Snow means travel and snowboarding.
9- My day job, because I look forward to it even though it’s only a day job. This is unheard of for me, and therefore, way worthy of gratitude.
10- The two good quality videos I directed last year, because with each project, I get better.
11- My stubborn good health, in spite of the refusal to see doctors, get insurance or take antibiotics on the occasions I’ve had a prolonged fever. (I do not recommend this behavior to anyone. If you don’t take prescribed antibiotics when you have a serious infection, you could die.)
12- The fact that I’ve accepted goal-setting as a required step towards goals.
13- The fact that I’ve learned not to leave room in my life for destructive people.
14- That hopeful breeze I sometimes wake up to, coming through the window. It makes me feel like there is no age limit for dreams or their realization. I may be delusional, but that breeze sure is delicious.
Since I’ve admitted it, does it mean I can keep going? Maybe some clean-up above? Yes, the latter. I’ll tell you in the end how much I went over.
…after the proofreading, cutting and rephrasing. And adding the first paragraph about how this would be the sort of blog post I personally find unpalatable. I survived. Let’s call it an exercise in pushing my boundaries of comfort. Not sure what you or I gained, but maybe you could tell me.
The good news? I land in forty minutes! I like going back to my life.
“This is your life,” said my niece during my vacation.
“Yes, it definitely is one of them.” But in my other life, I get to sleep in my own bed.
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