Me, in a bathtub.

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?

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?

My Children Are Going to Be So Well-Adjusted!

The beauty of becoming an adult is coming to realize that a great deal of what you learned growing up was complete and utter crap. True, it’s a bit frightening when this folder of Life’s Expectations and Supposed Truths that you’ve eagerly built up over the years becomes worthless - the way paper slowly deteriorates as it becomes saturated with water – but it can also be a bit freeing. There is some sad pleasure in it, and it makes me want to laugh, but it’s the kind of laugh you laugh when you’re really torn up about something and you just cant think of anything else to do. And, if you laugh long enough, you just might forget what it was that made you laugh to begin with.

When you think about it, future generations of adults would be a lot less fucked up if they weren’t brought up with all these expectations of what adulthood would be like, don’t you think? They’d have a great deal more time to spend actually living, instead of feeling sorry for themselves when their lives didn’t become the stuff of fairy tales.

Note to self: when you have children, tell them to prepare for a life of mediocrity. That way, if things work out better than that (which they probably won’t), they’ll be pleasantly surprised. And you might even get a Thank You out of it.

Lifestyle Polygamy

I’m not sure whether I believe in fate, or destiny, or whatever you want to call it. Sometimes, with the way things take shape, it’s difficult to believe that life is anything but predestined – like some complicated course our brain follows, unbeknownst to our consciousness. Still, though, there are always times that I’m made aware of how markedly different my life could have been had I made this particular decision or that.

And what about “callings?” Do I believe in those? That’s a tough one, too. I think that I grew up assuming I’d find mine, because it was always some highly idealized thing, almost an expectation that I should one day realize my purpose for being here. But, after awhile I began to think that that was a load of bullshit that the supposedly older, wiser population spewed forth because that’s what their parents did with them. We don’t really have callings, just like we don’t ever meet Prince Charming - who also happens to be ridiculously good-looking, wealthy, and all that – we don’t have the 2.5 kids and then reside oh-so-happily with them in the suburbs, yet we still hear these tales over and over again.

So, yeah, that’s what I came to think, after awhile. But, where am I now? I do feel as though I’m being pulled in a particular direction, though its vastly different than the one I thought five or six years ago I’d be headed. So is it that I’ve just come to realize my niche, or is it that this path will be a means to yet another end?

Perhaps more accurate is that we have multiple fates, just as we have multiple Prince Charmings. There is no one path we should take, no one career, no one perfect mate. There are likely several of each, and what we have to decide is what we’re willing to live with, to sacrifice, in order to make each one a reality in our lives. Right now, I see two vastly different lives stretching out before me and I have no fucking clue which one I’m going to opt for, because I want both.

In some ways, I wish I were obligated by destiny, because the element of choice would be removed and if things didn’t work out as I’d hoped, I’d have fate to blame instead of myself.

Tongue-tied

Language is an incredible medium of expression. When in the proper hands it can be so powerful, so moving...and when I am faced with such expertly crafted prose or speech - though I am awed and flooded with emotion - I cannot but feel inadequate. For, I've not mastered this medium of communication - or any, to be fair - and it saddens me. I cannot be alone in this; there are worlds without number, existing only in the minds of their keepers, for our expression can never properly illustrate their depths. I long for the talent to describe in vivid and comprehensive terms the way my skin feels when I am walking through the city on a brisk morning, or the way the narrowness of european streets and the amazing variety of shops lining them, create such an intimate feel for those passing through.

These descriptions are somehow beyond me. I am dissatisfied with my own recollections, when it is that I write or speak of them. I notice it especially now, since I have been travelling. Seeing so many unbelievable things and trying to find some way to relay to my family and friends, but constantly falling short. I want them to be able to see what I have had the pleasure to see but the only way for them to cultivate some image is if I can somehow find the words...

Tasty and Gray

The weather here is incredibly unpredictable. Bizarre swings occur throughout the day, to the point that one almost has to prepare for all manner of weather within a given twenty-four hours.

At the moment, and for the past couple of hours, it has been woolen gray. Rainy. The sky pisses in an unconcerned manner and I sit here, cozy and dry. I can’t help but marry these weather patterns with those of my moods since arriving here. It seems fitting that Mother Nature should be so moody; her demeanor is mine. For now, we are pensive.

Europe has been beckoning me for many years and I have often wondered why. In a strange way, it has felt as though a piece of my soul has been residing here - originated here perhaps - and has been waiting for some reunion. Is it that a resurrection is necessary before we’ll be able to see the world appropriately? I don’t know, for I have never been able to articulate the nature or power of this force. But it is such that I’ve been unable to turn my back on it - the desire has always been with me to varying strengths. Finally, I have made the journey and I am slowly beginning to understand the lure. I already feel a certain comfort in its embrace, an innate feeling that part of me will be forever bound here.

Though, I don’t feel that London is the heart of it all; she is only my vehicle to greater things. A trial of sorts...in a sense, the hard candy shell of things. I am still licking, tasting, and creeping toward the delicious center. And I don’t yet know what exactly it will contain, nor where I will be when I find it, though there is no doubt of its goodness.

For now, I’m just enjoying the candy. No need to rush…

She is a multitude of things, London; the city cannot be clearly defined. She is not black or white, but gray. There exists a charming and mysterious interplay of cultures, people, colors, smells, styles, textures. One must see this city with many eyes, just as one must prepare for her many moods. All rigidity must be forsaken, and it has been an almost effortless transition…I have easily taken to the ebb and flow.

We can share some air, but not a conversation.

London is a most peculiar place, and the way I see it, its only a model of what modern society has become.

Approximately 8 million people live in greater London and never have I been in a place where I have legitimately interacted with fewer people. Its quite amazing, really. The people of this city love their music - London is an epicenter for musical expression, so it makes sense. It is unbelievable the sheer number of individuals who walk about with earphones almost permanently attached to their persons. (I am guilty of this, I admit.) So, we walk down the streets, literally shoulder-to-shoulder, thousands commuting and there is no interaction. We climb into the subway cars, crammed as cattle, and still nothing. No speech, no laughter. Silence save for that emanating from our earphones...

Big cities are far lonelier places than they may seem. Though I am content with the arrangement, it saddens me on some level that this is what the world has become. Certainly this is not revolutionary thought - that technology and the near constant change of society has resulted in greater anomie. The things that ought to bring people together only serve to alienate.

We are more alone than ever before; six billion of us. Alone together. Once your attention is called to it, the fact becomes hard to ignore. And its only going to intensify, this lack of intimacy.