Ok, so I have to admit that I've been letting the stress get to me. I need to get a grip. I'm not curing cancer over here. Nobody's life is at stake. I told Sadie that I feel like I'm shouting at myself "I WANT THE TRUTH" and then myself is yelling back at me "YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!!!" Dude, chill.
Yesterday I was at the gym doing a guilt workout so that I could say that I had lost at least a half a pound for the biggest loser dealie (I did!). I was also trying to blow off some steam because when I woke up, I couldn't turn my head from side to side, after doing our first dance rehearsal, which made me feel old and craggy. Just about everything everyone says to me makes me want to unhinge my jaw and shout "I'm all full thanks, leave your card by the door".
Today instead of buying a HDMI to mini HDMI cable, painting fiber board lightning bolts, and learning what it means to transcode, I went into the pink man cave and ironed. That's right. I said it. I IRONED. I got out some of my old sarongs that Nip and I bought at Simrane in Paris before Jack was born. I bought tons of them, but the pink ones I wore the most (obv) and they've gotten so worn, that they're pretty faded, and some have ripped. I ironed them, and then cut them into strips so that I can make a quilt. I thought I'd mix in some of Heather Ross Mendocino fabric too. Yeah, no, I don't know how to quilt, but why should that stop me? I don't know how to act, or shoot music videos, or write songs, or take pictures, or make cakes, or be a mom, or really do much of anything at all. But the idea of doing all those things keeps me interested. SO I ironed and I felt better.
SO back to the day before at the gym. I was on the treadmill, and because I felt like I needed to maximize the use of my time, I decided to practice my Lady Gaga dance moves (at least the arm movements) on the treadmill. Yeah, that's right, I don't give a damn what kind of crazy I look like, I'm a MOM. SO I'm there, happily walking, watching the tutorial on my iphone propped up on the magazine rack on the treadmill. I've got my headphones on, I'm pop and locking, and as I bring my arms down in front of me, I get them caught up in the headphone wires. The earbuds jerk out of my ears, and the phone tumbles to the ground. The moving sidewalk underneath me, I fumble to grab the headphone, or phone, anything, and as I do, I KICK the phone. KICK it, like I was Pelé, and lucky me, the treadmill is located on the balcony overlooking the weight room, and over it goes. In slow motion I watch my 2nd iphone set sail, and as I'm on a treadmill, it takes me a second to smash the stop button, jump off, race to the banister, and see, is it dead? There it is, on the ground. I look around, did anyone see that? On top of being the psycho loser doing bad dance moves on the treadmill, I am now the psycho loser asking some meathead to keep an eye on my phone, until I can come down and retrieve it. This guy, whose neck is at least as wide as my waist, grunts enough of an acknowledgment. I grab my bag, and run down the stairs, pick the phone off the floor. It's still playing the Lady Gaga tutorial, and besides having some serious gym rat cooties, it's fine. Hoorah! AND...scene. Please tip your waiter on the way out.