A list of things present in the bath with me the other night: A lavender-scented soy wax candle, an 800-plus page Tolstoy novel, my kooky $350 German eyeglasses, a bottle of middle-of-the-road Canadian beer – Kokanee, to be precise. A $4 bottle of shampoo that I followed with an application of $25 conditioner, a half-empty bottle of children’s bubble bath – tutti frutti-scented. What else? A bottle of $30 all-organic vitamin and mineral-infused face wash. And a half-used, scraggly lookin’ bar of ever-so-manly Irish Spring.
Not long after settling down into the fabulously fruity goodness of my bubble bath, I had an epiphany: This scene was as good an encapsulation of me as a person that I could stumble upon unawares. A scene full of humorous contradictions and seemingly implausible combinations, or at least, unlikely ones…
The soy wax candle? That’s the health- and environmentally-conscious consumer in me. The hippie that resides deep within me. And, it’s lavender: soothing, comforting. For the sensualist in me.
The Tolstoy? The intellectual book worm, of course. The part of me that likes to go for the gold, to challenge the limits of my mind.
The too-expensive European eyeglasses? The quirky, style-conscious fashionista – wordly, with expensive taste - that I can claim to be on my better days.
The Beer: The laid-back, girl-next-door. It’s no microbrew, nothing fancy…which suggests accessibility. But again, it’s foreign…so I’m still exercising a bit of discretion there. A pinch of beer elitism, that calls for the exclusion of domestic beer.
How about the shampoo and conditioner combo? Well, some might think it’s just about pointless to drop $25 bucks on conditioner when I’ll preface its use with some shitty drug store shampoo. Although I understand that sort of practical argument, I have to say: I liked the smell and list of ingredients in the shampoo. Pretty straight-forward. But, the other part of me really likes to care for my hair, to keep it healthy…hence the spendy creamed lube. So, what this means: I can be impractical and – some may deem – wasteful, but it works for me. And I smell good doing it.
The children’s bubble bath? Well, that was purchased at a dollar store. The easy part – it represents the fun-loving kid in me, a part of me that I always try to nurture. The dollar store bit? That accounts for the selectively thrifty shopper in me. And the bubble bath itself, well, that’s for the part of me that always feels a need to find time to unwind, to get back to myself; the earthy woman in me. I always look forward to relaxation and reflection amid a sea of fluffy, iridescent bubbles.
Ok, on the face wash. That’s the planner in me, the woman that is always looking to the future and trying to practice “preventative maintenance”. A woman who knows she doesn’t have the prettiest face, but needs to maintain what she’s got. (Protection of one’s assets, however meager.) I can justify the use of mediocre bar soap on my limbs and booty, but my face? Hell no, it needs to be pampered.
The bar soap? No luxurious bodywash here. I like the crisp, masculine scent of Irish Spring. That must be the tomboy in me. It’s a sort of checks and balances; I can never let myself become too feminine, to eschew my boyish roots. It’s the roughness that always accompanies the tender.
Once I took stock of this little enclave that I had (unconsciously) created for myself, I just laid back into the warmth and laughed. At myself. Because of what I thought each item represented, and then, again - at myself! – because, what kind of person would actually sit in her tub and think to explain her character vis-a-vis some smallish pile of random bath accoutrements?
Sunday, September 11, 2005
Friday, September 2, 2005
Just your average, OCD-ridden Molly Homemaker
I am allowing the doubt to creep in again, and it is - as always - wrecking havoc. It seems as though I go through these spells every couple of months, then something comes along to elevate me, to bring me back, so to speak. I continue to struggle with the idea that my life should be navigated in some way, and whether this idea is a beneficial one to cling to. I fear I will fight this demon my whole life. I fall prey to cynicism and uncertainty often…too often, in fact.
It has been a difficult few weeks. I’m feeling more and more displaced the longer I am here. Not only have I yet to find an apartment and begin to arrange some sort of “home” but, increasingly, I feel as though I am impinging on my boyfriend’s freedom and ease-of-movement. He’s been absolutely wonderful in allowing me to stay with him until I find an apartment, but I have stayed longer than both of us have planned and the cracks in this veneer are beginning to show…
I have often remarked in my writing about my need for environmental comfort. Even though this space is not officially “mine,” I will both consciously and unconsciously try to tweak it to make it more livable, more comfortable. It’s not, by any means, my right to do this, but I just can’t help it. I try to keep it to a minimum so as not to displease my boyfriend. There is also this, uh..shall we say, habit, that I have…I clean. I rearrange. I organize. Compulsively, at times. I can be a little over-particular when it comes to cleanliness and the idea of “order”, this much I can admit. I see a space and automatically I begin to visualize how it could be more efficiently arranged, or how adjusting a few things would add to the aesthetics of the place. Again – I can’t help it! It’s the creative, artsy-fartsy element at work in me. Add to the equation that I am on holiday from school and not working and you’ve got an anal, bored, clean freak just itching to polish the fuck out of the kitchen floor.
Now, I’m gonna really make this messy and admit that my “the woman’s place is in the home” upbringing still maintains some roots within my psyche – albeit shallow, somewhat deprived ones. Being with Kevin has planted (or perhaps revived?) the desire in me to want to maintain some sort of home, to cook for him, to bake the cookies and make the bed, and be there to kiss him when he comes home from work. It’s not a position I have ever been in, or particularly aspired to, but this little pre-game has proved enjoyable and rewarding. For the most part I think he appreciates what I try to do. I understand that he is short on time and honestly, doesn’t really care too much when it comes to regularly engaging in domestic duties. He doesn’t really cook, either – but I enjoy it. I just never had much opportunity to when I lived alone or with picky, bland, potato-and-beef-eating roommates.
What much of this fluff amounts to is that I genuinely want to make Kevin happy. I am excited to recognize this type of desire, because, in my only official “serious, committed” relationship before, I didn’t experience it naturally. The little things that once seemed annoyances to me, now seem like little opportunities to make my partner smile or to brighten his day. I’m forever thinking of small ways in which I can surprise him, or show him how much I love him.
Like I said, I’ve had a more-than-usual amount of time on my hands. All this time has made me feel like a slacker, and the absence of any kind of regimented schedule has left me scrambling for some alternative means of balance. All these little things I've trifled with have allowed me some sense of purpose, however inconsequential it may seem to some. Though my intentions are of the best sort, I do feel as though I am stifling my boyfriend a little. He’s never said this directly, of course – he’s far too agreeable in that sense – but some little queues, and my own paranoia, have illustrated as much.
Once the paranoia top is popped, I’m pretty much done for. With me, paranoia acts in a similar fashion to antivirus software. It begins to scan every crevice within me, searching the smallest grain of difficulty or insecurity, and it flings it to the forefront. All at once I am thrust into a pool of doubt and self-deprecation and, rather than gingerly paddling to the stairs and making a calm, dignified exit, I instead imbibe on the increase in cellulite on my ass (that is only magnified when looking down through the water), and all manner of personal shortcomings. (Yes, I realize this all seems very “left field”.) So, to an outsider this situation I am in may be one of purely domestic displacement, but I see it as some medium with which my unattractive features, and the less-than-hoped for features of our relationship are to be painfully exposed. Overly dramatic, perhaps? Shit, who am I to say? I’m not thinking clearly as it is, and all of the harsh cleaning agents I have used in my search for Molly Homemaker solace have further hindered me in the cognitive department.
Clearly, I am in a sorry state. This journal entry ought to be evidence of that. I am all over the damn place and in the back of my head I am thinking about how much more awful I’ll feel should I learn that some man in the general public has stumbled upon this site…because “obviously” it will only reaffirm the stereotype that we woman are irrational, inconsistent and altogether fucked in the head. And, I just don’t think I’d be able to live with myself knowing that I – an otherwise level-headed and sane woman – have somehow fed that beast.
Wait....
I just had a thought: What if I were to print out all of my writings and take them with me to a therapist. What would she or he have to say? Granted, we all have some bits in us that are off-kilter, but how badly out of balance would I be deemed? I am both interested and fearful to expose myself to a diagnosis. However, would I be a good “case study”? Because, let’s face it, I’m not really painting myself in the most gorgeous of lights here, so it can be argued that I am not seeking to hide unattractive qualities within myself. Surely, from a psychotherapist’s point of view, this is a good thing?
It has been a difficult few weeks. I’m feeling more and more displaced the longer I am here. Not only have I yet to find an apartment and begin to arrange some sort of “home” but, increasingly, I feel as though I am impinging on my boyfriend’s freedom and ease-of-movement. He’s been absolutely wonderful in allowing me to stay with him until I find an apartment, but I have stayed longer than both of us have planned and the cracks in this veneer are beginning to show…
I have often remarked in my writing about my need for environmental comfort. Even though this space is not officially “mine,” I will both consciously and unconsciously try to tweak it to make it more livable, more comfortable. It’s not, by any means, my right to do this, but I just can’t help it. I try to keep it to a minimum so as not to displease my boyfriend. There is also this, uh..shall we say, habit, that I have…I clean. I rearrange. I organize. Compulsively, at times. I can be a little over-particular when it comes to cleanliness and the idea of “order”, this much I can admit. I see a space and automatically I begin to visualize how it could be more efficiently arranged, or how adjusting a few things would add to the aesthetics of the place. Again – I can’t help it! It’s the creative, artsy-fartsy element at work in me. Add to the equation that I am on holiday from school and not working and you’ve got an anal, bored, clean freak just itching to polish the fuck out of the kitchen floor.
Now, I’m gonna really make this messy and admit that my “the woman’s place is in the home” upbringing still maintains some roots within my psyche – albeit shallow, somewhat deprived ones. Being with Kevin has planted (or perhaps revived?) the desire in me to want to maintain some sort of home, to cook for him, to bake the cookies and make the bed, and be there to kiss him when he comes home from work. It’s not a position I have ever been in, or particularly aspired to, but this little pre-game has proved enjoyable and rewarding. For the most part I think he appreciates what I try to do. I understand that he is short on time and honestly, doesn’t really care too much when it comes to regularly engaging in domestic duties. He doesn’t really cook, either – but I enjoy it. I just never had much opportunity to when I lived alone or with picky, bland, potato-and-beef-eating roommates.
What much of this fluff amounts to is that I genuinely want to make Kevin happy. I am excited to recognize this type of desire, because, in my only official “serious, committed” relationship before, I didn’t experience it naturally. The little things that once seemed annoyances to me, now seem like little opportunities to make my partner smile or to brighten his day. I’m forever thinking of small ways in which I can surprise him, or show him how much I love him.
Like I said, I’ve had a more-than-usual amount of time on my hands. All this time has made me feel like a slacker, and the absence of any kind of regimented schedule has left me scrambling for some alternative means of balance. All these little things I've trifled with have allowed me some sense of purpose, however inconsequential it may seem to some. Though my intentions are of the best sort, I do feel as though I am stifling my boyfriend a little. He’s never said this directly, of course – he’s far too agreeable in that sense – but some little queues, and my own paranoia, have illustrated as much.
Once the paranoia top is popped, I’m pretty much done for. With me, paranoia acts in a similar fashion to antivirus software. It begins to scan every crevice within me, searching the smallest grain of difficulty or insecurity, and it flings it to the forefront. All at once I am thrust into a pool of doubt and self-deprecation and, rather than gingerly paddling to the stairs and making a calm, dignified exit, I instead imbibe on the increase in cellulite on my ass (that is only magnified when looking down through the water), and all manner of personal shortcomings. (Yes, I realize this all seems very “left field”.) So, to an outsider this situation I am in may be one of purely domestic displacement, but I see it as some medium with which my unattractive features, and the less-than-hoped for features of our relationship are to be painfully exposed. Overly dramatic, perhaps? Shit, who am I to say? I’m not thinking clearly as it is, and all of the harsh cleaning agents I have used in my search for Molly Homemaker solace have further hindered me in the cognitive department.
Clearly, I am in a sorry state. This journal entry ought to be evidence of that. I am all over the damn place and in the back of my head I am thinking about how much more awful I’ll feel should I learn that some man in the general public has stumbled upon this site…because “obviously” it will only reaffirm the stereotype that we woman are irrational, inconsistent and altogether fucked in the head. And, I just don’t think I’d be able to live with myself knowing that I – an otherwise level-headed and sane woman – have somehow fed that beast.
Wait....
I just had a thought: What if I were to print out all of my writings and take them with me to a therapist. What would she or he have to say? Granted, we all have some bits in us that are off-kilter, but how badly out of balance would I be deemed? I am both interested and fearful to expose myself to a diagnosis. However, would I be a good “case study”? Because, let’s face it, I’m not really painting myself in the most gorgeous of lights here, so it can be argued that I am not seeking to hide unattractive qualities within myself. Surely, from a psychotherapist’s point of view, this is a good thing?
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