I’ve never been big on personal hygiene. In high school, my friends and I would make a contest of who could wear their clothes the longest. My dad once told me my hair smelled bad. For a time in my mid-20s, I stopped shaving my armpits for no good reason whatsoever, and my mother was secretly terrified that I’d get married that way. I’m not exactly a girl’s girl, I guess, is what I’m saying, if your image of a girl is something clean-scrubbed and pink, with banana curls.
When I was depressed, it was often the prospect of showering that kept me from leaving my bed. The simple task of putting soap to water was enough to paralyze me, an insurmountable obstacle on my path to normalcy. So I kind of stopped, for awhile. Just so I’d be able to go about my day. And although I’m not depressed now, I’ve recently found myself running up against the same wall. Showering sucks. I hate it. So I haven’t been doing it.
Mind you, it’s not like I’m some hairy goliath running around Boston here – I’m a pretty petite lady, and I think I powder and perfume enough to cover my occasional lapse. But today is kind of worse than usual. Today is kind of… euch.
I thought I’d figured it out, see? I thought if I showered in the evenings, it would be like I was taking BACK the shower. Like, showering in the morning is something you “have” to do. Showering at night is a personal choice. So that became my plan: to shower at night. It’s a totally workable plan, until you consider the fact that I’ve got a pretty active social life and haven’t gotten home before midnight since Sunday.
Guess who’s not showering at midnight? This girl.
Guess who’s still not showering in the morning? The very same.
So yeah. Euch. I think I’ll wash my hair when I get home, before my dad weighs in on the situation.
I loved my iPhone. Katsumi gave it to me for my 29th birthday, just one day after the new release came out. I felt way above the curve for the first time in my life. An avid technophobe, I’d previously spent my days grumbling about the uselessness of the cameraphone and saying things like, “Who needs to check their email ALL THE TIME, anyway?” The iPhone changed me, almost overnight. I became rabid for apps, photo-happy, and email outpaced caffeine on my continuum of addiction.If the iPhone were a shoe, it would be a glass slipper, if the iPhone were a wig, it would be platinum blonde. I felt smart, strong, powerful, and undeniably cool. I loved my iPhone.
Time went by, and my ardor only increased. I scoffed at the Gs, proffering my little-used flip camera as proof that nobody really needs video anyway. I even blasted the 4G as the leaks dripped from Apple HQ – iMovie? Teleconferencing? I can barely edit on my 15-inch laptop, never mind a 2-inch touchscreen, and only 10.7% of iPhone users that can benefit from Facetime. The other 89.3% are just calling the guy down the hall to be like “HEY. DUDE. I CAN SEE YOU! Like, on my PHONE!”
Then I touched it.
That square frame, that glistening case, the gentle cool weight of it in your hand. Blazing internet, how could it be? We were still on Edge, in the middle of Camp Bisco, and it was ten times as fast as my old model. Just like that, the slippers broke. I was plain Jane again, Cinderella, all mousy and shagged out sweeping ashes from someone else’s stoop. I can’t afford a new phone, and I’m not eligible for an uprgrade, so I’ll have to live with the ignominy until 2011. Now I know why envy is one of the deadly sins.
I am so tired. Diet coke isn’t cutting it anymore.
And I didn’t even realize. I was driving to Sabrina’s house last night, and I was thinking of her triathalons, and I was remembering how last year I had to miss her very first one ever because I was in the hospital. That was my first day inpatient. June 6, 2009.
I’m not going to do a big thing about how I’ve learned so much and come so far because honestly, it’s been done. But I will say that anybody who’s feeling depressed and alone ought to go back and read my entries from June of last year. That’s when I started being really candid about my disease. I wish I’d started sooner, because I know it helps other people. And it’s also helped me. So instead of a recap, I’d like to say thanks. Thank you to all my readers, especially everybody who’s commented, emailed, or called. You guys are a big reason why I am where I am, and I couldn’t have done it without you. Let’s all have a drink sometime, eh?
The more I travel on in this world, the more I become convinced that the universe uses me as its toilet. I arrived home from Cancun at 11pm Sunday night, opened up my suitcase, and found an empty camera bag. No D80. No lenses. No good.
My mother was surprised at how well I handled it – namely, without any reaction at all – but later on, after the reality of the situation sunk in, I got on the express train to Bell Jar with a layover at Self Loathing. I KNEW I shouldn’t have checked the camera, but I was more concerned about my bag being lost than I was about items being stolen, and I thought, hey, I’ve had a hard weekend. Why not make things easy on myself for once? Playa del Carmen was gorgeous, but it took me 15 hours to get there and I spent the bulk of my vacation fending off anxiety attacks about shooting the wedding. Combine my stress-based fatigue with a 4.5 hour layover in Miami, add in 1300 wedding pictures and a job well done, and I felt like I deserved to not drag the camera back to Boston on my back.
Now we know what happens when we don’t punish ourselves. The universe does it for us. I hate my life.
Wedding pictures on Flickr, updated between bouts of weeping.