Monday, October 28, 2013

My 4th Grade Existential Crisis

I have never been a journaler nor have I ever been able to keep an authentic diary for more than three consecutive days in my entire life.  But, now I have my little bloggity blog and as I "write" I realize that I have had thoughts that have run deep and constant over the course of my life.  I understand now that I have been wrestling with my consciousness since before I was even capable of realizing I possessed a consciousness.

By the 3rd and 4th grades, I was truly not sleeping for weeks worth of nights.  I would lay my head down on my pillow and the thoughts and the worry would flood over and through me.  As a little girl, I had an 8:30pm bedtime and I would wake up at at all hours of the middle-of-the-night in some sort of crisis--if I was even lucky enough to fall asleep at all--knowing in my heart of hearts that no matter what I had done during the day I had never done that one last "thing" that would bring me closer to being "done"--bring me closer to nighttime peace.   I can actually remember pacing in my room with the light on--I was young enough to still be scared of a dark home, but my soul was old enough to be in crisis.

This describes my nights to this day.  Exercise and good food helps, as well as the Caveman's enduring patience, but eventually the anxiety catches up with me and the nights get really long and the days get really short or vice verse-- business suffers, already barely manageable chronic pain flares and the migraines escalate; I pace both physically and mentally and it's hard to sit still to even eat dinner; I am unable to read a book or knit my beloved handknits.  It's like I feel the other shoe is going to drop at any moment or something big is about to happen--just not sleep.

In an odd way, I feel kinda blessed to have this restlessness; this hand in the middle of my back; this tightness pulling in my chest; this thought constantly walking across my mind.  Because the this keeps me from residing in a place of complacency.  And I am really happy for that.  I just really wish I could lay my head down at night, close my eyes, fall asleep and wake-up in the morning on time like a normal effen human being.  *Sighing and shrugging shoulders*  Maybe if I was a better "writer", I would know of a way to neatly tie this all together--maybe, all I can do is write this out loud.  Maybe.  Who the hell knows.

So, I am simply going to say, "Goodnight; sleep tight."  Yeah, good luck with that.

xoxo Darya

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Slippery When Wet

We.  And by "we", I mean the Caveman, decided that having an entire bottle of homemade lemoncello on the bureau next to my bed was not the wisest of my life's most recent decisions. 

Caveman:  Well, it just seems that maybe that isn't the best idea.  That's all I'm saying.
Me:  Kinda a slippery slope, huh?
Caveman:  Yeah.  Slippery...

He ain't judging.  He never does.  He's just saying.  I like that he says so.

xoxo Darya

 PS - The fact that it is not an entire bottle of lemoncello further illustrates his point. 

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Taste the Cure

           --Isak Dinesen

When he is at work, I picture the Caveman sweating and cursing at 10-inch cast-iron pipe as he fits it into a 9-inch attic hole from atop a 12-foot ladder in the mid-day heat and the midnight cold on the rooftops of hospitals and universities and shiny glass buildings where bow-tied hipsters and prissy too-thin and inappropriately dressed women bitch about the thermostat controls being set too high and the noise of the pipe welding is too loud.  All this goes on while the Caveman makes sure they have potable water to make their precious cappuccinos and autoclaves sterilize uber-precise aerospace equipment.  When he comes home after work, I can smell the pipe and the hard work of his day on his long-sleeved shirts and Carhartt pants and I can see the sweat on the inside band of the welding caps I make for him. 

While I have certainly cried my fair share of tears--that fact has been pretty well documented in my prior articles so there is no need to double-dip that chip here--but the Caveman is one of those rare male creatures who can unabashedly and unashamedly shed a tear.  He cries them silently and handsomely--no big swollen red eyes or snot filled sinuses.  The tears come equally in joy and in sorrow.  They slide out the corners of his eyes when he watches the Iron Man Triathlon or he thinks of his sweet Roxy Girl or the father he lost to cancer or the son he raised to adulthood.  They roll down his cheeks while he is driving and he hears a song on the radio that reminds him of something sweet or sad or maybe even something that I have absolutely no clue about--I don't pry--I  simply wipe the tear away without a word.  We don't need words between us--I may not speak Spanish, but I do speak Caveman.

Surfing--the sea; the water--that's the real deal.  Most weekend mornings the Caveman goes out and meets up with his buddies either at Magnolia or Bolsa Chica.  They always stand on the edges of the fire pit rings and there is talk of the work week and the general quality of the surf and they sip their coffee and laugh and make boy talk; however, there is not always surfing.   Fact: I have always loved surfer boys.  So, you would think that after all these years I would be better at spotting whether or not there was actual surfing going on after these fire pit meetings.  It's true, I simply cannot tell by the way he parks the car in the driveway or  whether the board is in the front passenger side of the H3--where I usually sit, so that I have to adjust my seat from the most reclined position and then stare at the little mark that Sticky Bumps wax leaves on the dashboard--instead of on the actual mounted surf racks.  I definitely cannot tell by the way he gets out of the car or how he unloads his board or even the fact that there are little clumps of sand on the stairs because his feet are always covered in sand.  Believe it or not, it's not even when I lean in to him and hug him and feel the coolness of his skin--coolness from the cold sea water or the cold beach air or the cold water shower he took at the beach.  But, I can always tell when I kiss him.  Whether I kiss him on his lips or on his cheek, that is when I know for sure, because I can taste it--I can taste the saltwater on his skin.  I can taste the cure.

xoxo Darya

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

Hood Thoughts

It's not so much that it is a long story as it is a couple of stories that so clearly define our absolute love affair with each other.  And why the lobster is our mascot.  And I don't have time to go into all that right here and now--I am supposed to be seated in my seat at the hospital working on important cancer stuff.  But, as I placed my usual on-my-way-to-work-call to the Caveman this morning this was our conversation:

Me:  Good morning!
Caveman:  Good morning!  I was just thinking of you.
Me:  Oh, yeah.  What  were you thinking?
Caveman:  I was thinking just how much I care about you. Not, how much I love you.  Not, how much do we have to pay in taxes this year or are you working out tonight or how is your back or even how was my mom this morning, but how much I care about you.  This simply melts me into a little puddle of Darya and makes me feel like the most special girl in the whole wide world. 
Me:  Gulp.  What were you doing when you thought of that.
Caveman:  Just working--hood thoughts.

The Caveman calls these thoughts, "hood thoughts" or "thoughts behind the hood" because he is a pipe welder and he has to wear a welding hood...and he is alone with his thoughts...a lot...and he thinks of me...wheeeeeee.

He is my lobster.

xoxo Darya

Monday, October 7, 2013

A New Best Friend

The other night at dinner I really felt the sting of it all:  What I look like on the outside vs what is going on on the inside. Trying to be self-deprecating and oh-so-cavalier I admitted to a financial boo-boo.  My dear friend, EuroTrash Girl, seemed so surprised and said that I always seemed "to be so put together".  Liar.  I felt so much like I let her down; like I let myself down--like my panties were showing as I walked down the wedding aisle of life.  Now, EuroTrash Girl loves me and cares for me and wants nothing but the best for me, but I instantly wished that I hadn't said anything out loud about how much I suck at this life. Faker.

What I didn't share is how I wake up late for work every single day and that my roots are always grown out and how I don't have enough money in savings and I work only to pay my house and cover my roots.  Phony.  And how I have a limited education.  Stupid.  And how I now have to see a psychologist. Crazy. And how I want to be a perfectionist but I am really lazy and an expert at nothing and how I need friendship and acceptance and a decent nights sleep but get neither and none and don't know how to go about getting either or any. Complainer. And how I want to be an example and mentor to young women but have such trouble connecting.  Dumbass.  Like a broken record once it gets stuck in that groove--over and over and over--Darya's greatest hits of suckiness.  It becomes a kind of mantra and not in a good way.  Am I covering up for my inadequacies? Am I trying to distract you with the shiny and pretty because there is really nothing of substance behind the newest skinny cammo jeans that I am wearing?  I have my theories, and they vary from day to day and mood to mood.

But there is something about saying your fears/lies/stories/make-believe out loud--you don't have to be held prisoner any longer.  The worst thing that could have happened happened and life went on just like before.  EuroTrash Girl shook her head at me and said that she just never really would have guessed it, but she didn't really judge me and the dinner table talk turned to something better and we shared an entrees and a bottle of wine and our husbands talked about work and surf and EuroTrash Girl and her husband shared the details of their recent dream trip to Gibralter and all was good.  Really good.  We paid our share of the bill and teased with the waiter and closed the restaurant down.  So, while I felt judged--I really wasn't, well, at least not by her--I was doing the only judging against me that night at the table.  I sure didn't treat myself like my own best friend.  Maybe the only young lady I am really meant to mentor is myself.

Darya, I would like for you to meet Darya--now go be best friends!

xoxo Darya