The Big Push of 2015: Hali's Summer Vacation
/As grateful and lucky as I feel to have two and a half months off from school, I’m also scared shitless.
For someone like me, unstructured time=laziness=depression=weight gain=self-hatred=massive hibernation.
How’s that for uplifting
While many of my colleagues are soaring to exciting locations and experiences, I am almost dreading the idea of being on my own, without structure. You see, I don’t trust myself. I’ve let myself down time and time again. I can stare at my Tracy Anderson Dance Cardio DVD and it’s gray coating of dust and tell myself that “once summer comes, I’m cracking that thing open.” I can gaze longingly outside the bedroom window at the blossoming jasmine and promise myself that I’ll spend time in the garden come June. I can shove questionable clothing into drawers that are already overflowing and say to myself, “self, get ready to do some summer cleaning!” But deep inside, I have that familiar nagging feeling that I just won’t get myself to do anything. And I still can’t seem to answer the same question I’ve been asking myself since I was 8 years old. What came first? The laziness or the fear?
So, I’ve decided to address whatever the hell it is head on which is a big deal for me because my default disposition is indeed hibernation. So, it’s a push. Because I’m almost 44 guys! I mean, I don’t even remember 34! And I don’t want to go through yet another year saying, “Yeah, 44, that’s the year I sat on my ass and watched every season of every Real Housewives ever made.” I want to be able to look back and say, “Yeah, 44, that’s the year I learned how to cook!” Although that’s a horrible example since I have absolutely no desire to cook. Let’s be more realistic here. How about, “Yeah, 44, that’s the year I wrote and performed my second one-woman show.” That feels better.
So, to prepare for the Big Push of 2015, I’ve made a list of my top goals for summer. Things I want to accomplish over these next two and a half months.
1. Move my body.
In order to avoid being surgically removed from my sofa in late August, I must move…every day. My first movement came…wait, let me rephrase that. I first moved…better…two days ago. It was a big deal. Walking to Starbucks. Now, usually I drive the three blocks to purchase my daily iced venti soy chai latte. But, given the Big Push, I dusted off my new Bob’s navy blue slip-ons from Skechers and committed. Here’s where I got stuck. Picking an outfit. Yes, picking an outfit to walk 40 minutes round-trip to Starbucks. WTF? “It’s walking, Hali! You walk all the time at school.” But that’s the thing, it’s not school. And then I start over-analyzing. Are the rules different if I’m walking to a farther destination? Are there rules? And I’m now paralyzed staring at my Gap jeans and my navy sweats…trying to decide. I suppose wearing the sweats would somehow differentiate this from being a normal walk and a workout walk. Okay, we’re going with the sweats. God, I’m annoying.
I eventually make it out the door and, having recently discovered that I could actually use my iPhone to listen to music rather than my iPod (I know), I throw my orange ear buds in and go. But it’s not very exciting. I kind of wish there was a bell or a gunshot or something officially declaring to the neighborhood that I was now taking my first walk of the summer. As the letdown wears off, I find myself in pain. Really? Already? It’s my new Bob’s shoes cutting into the backs of my heels. Fuck! Why did I choose to wear new shoes? So, I’m now hobbling through the neighborhood trying to take in the beauty of Santa Monica but feeling the cuts deepening with each step. By the time I arrive at Starbucks, I’m masking a limp and trying to ignore the blood seeping through my socks. Well, this sucked! It was all I could do to get my now sweaty and aggravated hip joints home. I collapse on, yes, the sofa where I then remained for the next 12 hours. Way to go, Hal.
2. Clean up the bedroom.
I’m a piler. And a stacker. And the bedroom is where the piles are born and raised. They start small, a pair of jeans or two, my sweat shorts (sweat pants that looked so awful on me that I cut them, unevenly I might add, into shorts), a beige bra. But as the week continues, they multiply and slip slowly down my Crate & Barrel desk chair, a birthday present from my husband I might add who really misses seeing that chair (poor guy), and onto to the floor where they start their own baby piles. So now it’s like a pile family. I wonder what they do while I’m gone. Pile BBQ’s? Pile group therapy?
A slight turn to the left and you’ll notice the stacks. The stacks of books that I want to read but never do but think I’m going to so I leave them there, the stacks of flip flops from Old Navy in every color you can think of except pink…I don’t do pink, the stacks of tote bags, (I never thought I’d be a tote bag person but they’re just so convenient!) the stacks of new cards from Papyrus that I’ll give to someone eventually, and the stacks of coupons, receipts, and bank statements from 6 months ago.
When I face the piles and the stacks, it’s anxiety. Massive anxiety because I don’t know where to start. So I stand there for 8 minutes just staring at everything. And my brain suddenly feels like I’m back in college and I’ve just stayed up all night cramming for finals. Sometimes my husband catches me standing and staring, which is embarrassing. He’ll say something kind like, “Just take it slow.” Or, “You can do it!” It’s amazing how deeply I’m impacted by the clutter. That my brain actually stops working because of clutter. But, Big Push of 2015…here we go! Just start, Hali. Seriously. It’s not that big of a deal.
3. Learn to weave a tapestry.
I love tapestries. I grew up with tapestries. Rectangular ones, round ones, 12’ long ones, mini ones. Tapestries are like home to me. A home that I deeply miss. A home that I have yet to mourn the loss of. A home that my parents and I made our own. Floors of hardwood and ceramic tiles paved the artistic and creative path of my childhood and adolescence. With our renovated kitchen and family room featured in Home Magazine (it was the seventies), it was a space where guests could gather around the fondue pot (again, the seventies), soak in the redwood hot tub, tan on the deck out back during the day and stargaze at night.
For 20 years I loved that home and although I’ve spent years resisting actually processing the fact that it’s no longer mine, I’ve managed to break the emotional ice bit by bit. From pulling out old and embarrassing Polaroids to featuring wooden artifacts collected from family trips around my current house, I suppose these small gestures help.
So, I really want to learn how to weave. But I’m haunted by my previous attempts at being artistic. The mini-mosaic jewelry class…disaster. Those pieces were too small! It was like I was playing Operation. Having to use tweezers to place these miniscule fragments of tiles? They were like the size of my Klonopin when I break it in half! Or the ceramics class with those uneven coiled bowls? Yes, I was 5 but it was still very upsetting. So, what if I try this whole tapestry thing and it looks like crap? What if I just epically fail and it winds up looking like something my cat threw up and then there goes my dream of weaving tapestries?
But, I push…Big Push guys, stay with me…and I go online. And, you know what? I cannot find a single person in all of Los Angeles who is able to teach me how to do this! I even email two teachers I find on the Southern California Handweaver’s Guild. Who knew this even existed, by the way? One responds that she just had hand surgery (maybe weaving isn’t such a good idea?) and the other writes, and I quote, “Hali, I wish I could help you but I’m just not good enough at tapestry to teach it.” Then why the fuck are you on the SCHG website advertising your class entitled Beginning Weaving? Good lord!
4. Be nice to myself.
Well, this goal’s loaded! I’m not very nice to myself but again, that’s where I’m comfortable. It’s always been easy for me to call myself an idiot or tell myself I look disgusting. But, and here’s the weird thing, it’s usually followed by some form of laughter. It happened this morning. I’m trying to get dressed to walk to the Co-op and, of course, we’re hitting the 28 minute mark and all I want to get is more tea for my husband who’s working like 14 hours a day and I can’t fucking find an outfit! And as I’m trying on my third pair of sweats and trying to catch a glimpse of my ass, I look at myself in the mirror and just say, “You’re an idiot. Who cares? Just go to the Co-op!” And I laugh at myself.
The good news is, I didn’t wear my Bob’s slip-ons. The bad news is, I wore flips flops and now have blisters on the tops of my feet from the straps. What an idiot.
