margaritas + mary tyler moore

sometimes i wonder what all the work is for. i mean, i work, i struggle to change my "bad habits" that are keeping me from growing and living fully. i think i've done so much work. i think of come so far. i feel, for a very brief moment, like Mary Tyler Moore tossing her 70s chapeau into the air, carelessly, fearlessly, but with a strong sense of certainty that that hat is going to come down precisely where i want it to - into my well-manicured little hands. it's not gonna veer off all willy-nilly and smack some unknown bystander in the face or land in a pile of poodle doo. no. for a second, i feel in control.

then, i don' t know what happens.

i...revert.

i...regress.

i...retard.

i eat the chocolate in the work candy dish even though i know it will not reduce my stress, but only exacerbate it, my skin, and my I.B.S. gurgle, gurgle, gurgle...blech.

i still....can't....speak....to Certain Person...the same Certain Person i talked to freely and easily the day before, goddammit...now, (why!?! i do not know.) i am rendered mute. cat-got-my-tongue, hairball in throat, can't even look person in the eye. helen keller had better social skills than i. i will end up old, alone, toothless, surrounded by cats, and little cut crystal bowls of 14-year old Brach's hard candies, watching my Latin soaps with the closed-captioning on while listening to Celine Dion's My Heart Will Go On.

i continue continue continue to look for approval outside of myself. will the boss approve of my work? will He say "hi?" will The Other One call? will They like the show? will my jeans fit the way i want them to? if the answer, on a particular day, to any of these questions is a "no," whoa, nelly. get thee away. i descend into an abyss of self-hatred and goo that i thought was reserved only for Really Bad People...people like saddam hussein or people who wear stirrup pants or people who shop at Wal-Mart.

i find myself at midnight on a Friday night, post-Margaritas, sitting Indian-style on my kitchen floor, weeping, hating myself so forcibly i think i might vomit, and maybe, i think, this is the answer. getting It out. vomiting it out. the bad stuff. but i don't. no bulimic will be born tonite. there's another voice inside me that's countering The Fran Drescher Hate Voice, and since i've "done all this work" The Toni Morrison Love Voice has gotten a little louder, (or maybe i'm just listening now?)

growth is not easy, chickadee. you're gonna fail. you're gonna trip. these dance steps are new. it's gonna take a little while for you to catch on. you've been doin' the waltz for years. it'll take some time to perfect the watoosie.

dammit. "i want it NOOOOOOOW, daddy!"

mom always said, "you'll feel better in the morning," and of course i do. i sorta feel stupid now about Sobfest: September 2005, but i also know i needed it. i've been holding It in all week, i needed to get It out, and with the aid of two very tasty frozen margaritas, i did. and, The Truth is so much more visible in the morning light. The Truth is...i have grown a lot...i have done a shitload of work on myself...i have come a long way, baby...but that doesn't mean, Margrocks, that it's gonna be a flawless execution every time. life is messy. i mean really...how many takes do you think it took for Mary T. to get her hat thrown juuuuuust right?

my guess is many.

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4:35 pm addendum...i feel like such an ass...a bombing in bali, and i'm whining about my weeny little probs...ugh. my apologies. on an up note, i bought a new bra. i might not be able to lift my spirits, but the least i can do is lift my breasts.